


Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love

by blondhandsomestranger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 14:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 43,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4964626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondhandsomestranger/pseuds/blondhandsomestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the defeat of Voldemort, Remus' walls begin to crumble, and the brightest - and most curious - witch of the decade can't help but discover another of her former Professor's closely guarded secrets. Remus/Hermione, Wolfmate story. Remus/Tonks never happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Tie your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

She was running.

Flashes of green, red and purple flew everywhere as the dark of night lightened to a bleached blue sky. It was as if someone had accidentally set a cart full of fireworks on fire, but the morning fog wasn’t so dense as to hide the real source - bodies still collapsed all around as they resumed the battle. Harry was gone.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from obstructing her view. Harry would be mourned. Harry, Professor Snape, Colin, Fre—oh God, Fred. She bit harder, until it stung more than the gashes across her arms and torso, until it distracted her from the ache in her legs as her feet hit the concrete at full-speed, until she reached the spot where two fifth years were writhing under a Cruciatus.

There was shouting, she knew, but all she could hear was her blood pounding in her ears. Or perhaps the heavy pounding was actually from the hexes exploding against the walls, trees, and people. Either way, she shouted her own spells as she engaged the Death Eater in battle, as if the volume of her voice was in direct proportion to the effectiveness of her hexes. It wasn’t, of course, but after her Stinging Hex hit him in the shoulder she hadn’t had time to question her crazy logic. Red and green lights zoomed past her head as she dodged his attacks, her own spells stopping at his quick barrier.

There was a sudden silence and a loud gasp, and her eyes darted to the students she’d just saved. They were shaking with the after-effects of the Unforgivable, yet their eyes shone with disbelief as they stared to the clearing at her left. She turned to see as Death Eaters, Aurors, Professors, and students stilled, watching as Harry got back on his feet, wand in hand and facing Voldemort one more time.

“Hermione, no!”

She saw a glimpse of purple light as something solid collided with her. At some point her eyes closed in preparation for the impact with the ground. The debris of a knocked down wall tore through her sweater and added to the open wounds on her back, but the spell never hit her.

She opened her eyes – Harry was alive.

And Hermione was lying in the arms of an unconscious Remus Lupin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tie your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

Hermione disentangled herself from Professor Lupin’s arms long enough to push herself to a sitting position and pull him towards her. Her wand had flown from her hand when he had tackled her to the ground, but she made no effort to look for it and retrieve it. The battle was over— the war was over—but then it wasn’t. She swallowed. It couldn’t be. Voldemort was dead, yes, but the void in her chest told her that the moment it was over she would go into shock and the man whose head she was cradling in her lap needed her to fight.

Her hands were clammy as she brushed his sandy brown hair from his face. Birds chirped somewhere – the morning had come and Hermione stared at him, almost expecting his eyes to slowly open. He looked like a morning person. But there was dried blood and dirt caked across his cheeks, chin and the all the way down his neck and she knew he wouldn’t wake up simply because there were bloody birds chirping. She checked for his pulse, avoiding the open cuts and the tender spot in his jaw that was starting to change color. There was still a beating – a very strong one, in fact, but paired with an uncommon heat of his skin. Was it a werewolf thing? She’d never touched him for more than a few seconds at a time before and her mind came blank as she searched for the answer in her head.

“Help.” She whispered. Hermione looked up and forced her voice to work, managing a raspy shrill tone, “Help! Somebody help!”

Heads turned her way – the students she had saved were still close by, yet in no condition of assisting her. They were battered and shaking, and having been to the wrong end of a Cruciatus herself, she knew it was a miracle they were still conscious at all. Hermione finally looked around for her wand. Broken bricks from the demolished wall were scattered around her and the concrete dust had yet to settle, making it even more difficult to spot it. She looked back at Lupin – Professor Lupin, she corrected – and her eyes trailed down to his body, covered by a brownish green robe that had once probably been a lively agate tone and free of rips. She found his wand, still clutched in his right hand and without trying to pry it open, she covered his large hand with hers and lifted it.

_‘You really are the brightest witch of your age’_ , she remembered. “Expecto Patronum!”

For a moment, she thought that the memory had been too weak, as thinking of the Professor’s words had brought tears to her eyes, but the white mist began to form at the tip of his wand. Her otter seemed uncommonly large through her blurry vision, but she dismissed it as a result of having her eyes full of tears. “Professor Lupin needs help, please come.”

The white patronus left her and it felt like ages had passed until Kingsley Shacklebolt arrived, followed by Mr. Weasley and Professor McGonagall.

Hermione wiped her tears with the sleeve of her jeans jacket, not caring that her cuts stung and probably reopened as she rubbed the rough cloth against them.

“Hermione, what happened?” Mr. Weasley asked. Hermione felt a pang of guilt as she saw the concern etched in his already grief-stricken expression. Auror Shacklebolt looked more collected and began waving his wand it in a very familiar way.

“Don’t!” cried Hermione, hunching over the werewolf’s body in a protective gesture. At his inquisitive glance, she explained. “He was hit with a wordless spell, purple sparks. If we levitated him he might get worse. He was trying to save me.”

The Auror nodded and tucked his wand beneath his robes. Along with Mr. Weasley he moved to lift the unconscious Professor Lupin off her lap. Hermione tried to get up, only to almost fall as her numb legs gave out. Professor McGonagall’s hand gripped her arm before she fell.

“Hermione, are you alright?”

Hermione nodded and willed her legs to stand straight. The head of Gryffindor’s hand was still wrapped around her arm. “I’m okay, Professor. I have to go with them. The students, will you care for them?”

Hermione turned her head towards the fifth years on the ground and McGonagall’s gaze followed. There was something sad and pitiful in the professor’s eyes as she looked back to Hermione and released her from her hold. “Yes, yes I shall. Go on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for the kudos! Here's another chapter, let me know what think! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A huge thank you to everyone that left kudos and to BCgurlie and stgulik for the comments!  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter as well! :)

**Tie your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Hermione kept her gaze locked on the wizards' backs as she followed them inside the castle. The feeling of guilt threatened to overwhelm her – it crept up from the bottom of her stomach and wrapped around her heart and lungs. So many had fallen… How was she to look into Mrs. Weasley's eyes when she managed to survive and Fred hadn't? How was she to stand in Professor Snape's funeral and cry when they all believed he was evil? And how was she to live if Professor Lupin died because of her?

She knew the emotion wasn't helpful. She knew it changed nothing and knew that deep down it wasn't her fault. And, eventually, her mind – her logical, rational mind – would prevail over these feelings. But at the moment, there were no words, no sense to make of any of it. So she kept her gaze trained on the one person she could –  _must_  – save, because that unconscious man was the only thing that kept her from falling apart.

They reached the makeshift infirmary that the Great Hall had become and Hermione stopped at the doors. Mr. Weasley and the Auror lowered Professor Lupin to a floating hospital cot, before leaving to fetch Madam Pomfrey. The thought of not having to go to the Hospital Wing was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, for Hermione's sore muscles could not make the trip all the way to the fourth floor even if the staircases hadn't been structurally compromised. She only wished the new location could smell more like the old one – gone was the scent of fresh sheets mingled with essence of Dittany – a scent she had long associated with recovery and friends' well wishes. In its place wafted the smell of burnt flesh and sweat.

"Hermione, dear?" Hermione had somehow missed the arrival of Professor McGonagall, who was now standing in front of her. Snapped out of her stupor, Hermione moved so to keep Professor Lupin in sight. "Are you alright?"

Hermione felt her eyes prickle. She gave the tiniest nod and changed the subject. "And the fifth years?"

"Lorena and Madeline will be fine, thanks to you I believe."

"Good, that's good."

There was silence, and Hermione went back to watching Professor Lupin. She could feel the older witch's eyes on her, almost as if she was hesitant to leave.

"Hermione," McGonagall began, "Was it Remus that cast the Patronus spell?"

"No, I did it, professor."

"Was he conscious then?"

Hermione shook her head. "The curse hit him and h-he…I conjured my Patronus and sent it away to get help."

"I see." The older witch pursed her lips, a frown deepening the vertical lines at the bridge of her nose.

Hermione was about to ask her why when Madam Pomfrey made her way through the patients. "Miss Granger, Arthur just told me you were the one with Remus when he was hit, did you hear the spell?"

"It was wordless magic."

"Are you quite certain?"

"I…" Hermione closed her eyes and tried to recall if there was a whisper, any sound that she could've dismissed as rustling leaves or the wind blowing. There were none. "Yes, I am. I was fighting a Death Eater, not sure which one, then there was silence. I looked to the side and heard Professor Lupin shout. I caught a glimpse of purple sparks and then we were on the ground. His temperature was high. I checked his pulse, his heartbeat was strong. That's good, right? It was beating fast–I-I couldn't count. I should've counted, why didn't I?"

"You did well, my dear." Madam Pomfrey reassured her, placing a hand on Hermione's shoulder. Hermione looked up, but the healer wasn't looking at her.

"What?" Hermione asked, catching the worried glance the two witches shared, but neither of them answered.

McGonagall raised her hand to her chest. "You don't think…"

"Purple sparks, fever, rapid heartbeat. It does sound eerily similar." Madam Pomfrey's lips curled downwards in what looked like sympathy.

"Similar to what?" Hermione pressed.

"There was a curse used in the last war. We don't know much about it, most are only conjectures. Some believe it may be a variation of the Flagrante Curse, others…"

"What?"

"Well, others think it might be an internal kind of Fiendfyre." Hermione felt her blood stop flowing, and the healer quickly added. "Of course there's no evidence to support either opinion. So no point in dwelling on them, my girl."

"Perhaps Hermione could stay with him, Poppy?"

"She is dehydrated, underfed and clearly exhausted, not to mention—"

"In a cot next to his. I know Miss Granger, she won't care for herself unless you allow her to care for a friend."

The medi-witch rolled her eyes. "Oh, very well. As long as you mind your own health first and follow my instructions."

"I promise," Hermione said before Madam Pomfrey left to tend to the patient. "Thank you, Professor."

"No need to thank me, dear. I'm sure Remus would appreciate your company."

As Hermione turned to follow the Healer and Lupin's floating cot, she thought she heard her Transfiguration professor mutter ' _If someone can heal him, it is you._ '

But maybe her imagination had started to play tricks on her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Tie your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

Nothing had changed much on the third day of Voldemort's defeat. The dead had been buried early in the morning the day before, and all of those who were cleared by Madam Pomfrey had left for the collective funerals on the grounds. Hermione hadn't been discharged – something that both relieved and saddened her. The longest she had stayed away from Professor Lupin had been a seven-minute shower, for which Harry had stayed in her place, and she couldn't bear to think of leaving him alone. Yet her heart sank when the Weasley's had stopped to check on her before Fred's funeral. Mrs. Weasley kissed her forehead and told her to rest and not worry – they would hold a ceremony to all war heroes soon, so all loved ones could pay their respects after they healed properly.

Indeed, nothing had changed much on the third day of Voldemort's defeat. But everything had changed the morning before, and today was proving to be surprisingly uncooperative about it.

Hermione set down her book with a groan, earning herself a few odd looks from fellow patients. Or perhaps the looks had less to do with the thick yellow tome and the guttural sound and more to do with the two competing piles of books stacked on the ground beside her cot. She had rummaged, in little more than a day, through more books than Ravenclaw's would in a year.

There was something illegal about the situation as well, yet Gringotts had mixed Hermione's definition of crime with the more lax notion of  _something-I-probably-shouldn't-do._  Therefore, the taking of books from the closed library without Madam Pince's knowledge seemed no worse to her than the fact that she was putting them on the floor. It was Harry – that unlike her had been discharged, despite the fact that he had  _died_ – that had offered to sneak her books from the now off-limits library. As for their placement, the chair-transfigured-nightstand had been too small to accommodate both the books and the potions Professor Lupin had to take, so the books had to go. And had they been a little more helpful, Hermione would've felt guiltier about it. As it was, for the first time in her life they seemed no better than arse-cleaning material…of very poor quality.

 _Maybe I'm being too harsh_ , she pondered,  _maybe they're just as good as decoration pieces. Of the distinguished, dust-catching, useless kind._ Hermione closed her eyes and sighed. She had flipped page after page, picked up book after book and only came up with vague, unreliable answers. Books and cleverness – what good they did?

She set the yellow tome, titled  _Link Magic_ , on top of the bigger pile and looked sideways to the smaller stack of books beside it. How was it possible that all knowledge available about the nameless curse amounted to a total of three Healing books and two Defense ones? Worse yet, how was it that from all five of them, all she had gathered was a total of two paragraphs – symptoms and hypothesis about its origin, the very two pieces of information Madam Pomfrey had provided her? Suddenly, having the same level of expertise on a subject as the experts themselves had stopped being complimentary and become worrisome. Especially since the only new knowledge she'd gained was what followed the evolution of the symptoms, something Madam Pomfrey had kindly withheld from her: excruciating death.

" _Oh, Miss Granger," Madam Pomfrey had said the day before when Hermione asked her about it. "Don't lose hope yet."_

And Hermione had been about to storm out of the Great Hall and into each and every classroom to scrutinize old schoolbooks, in the hopes she'd find the nameless curse scribbled at the margins of an abandoned Charms or Potions textbook somewhere—much like Harry had found Snape's  _Sectusempra—_ when Auror Shacklebolt showed up. His visit to Professor Lupin distracted her from the curse, bringing forth the cause of Hermione's  _current_  exasperation with books and the reason behind the bigger book pile.

" _Good evening, Miss Granger." He'd greeted her in a polite, yet warm tone as he stood beside the professor's cot._

" _Auror Shacklebolt." Hermione had replied with a small nod. She had been thinking about how battered he looked and chastised herself for the shallow thought, lowering her eyes to Lupin's stock-still figure. Something clicked in her mind, and before she could stop herself her lips were inquiring about it. "May I ask you something?"_

_The Auror met her eyes. "Certainly, what is it?"_

" _The Patronus you saw after the battle," she began, her eyebrows furrowed together as she replayed the odd conversation with Professor McGonagall in her head. Something about the older witch's words had intrigued her, but the Madam Pomfrey had interrupted them before she could ask. Surely her Patronus hadn't changed its form, had it? "Was it an otter?"_

" _Oh, yes, a very lively one. It came straight to Arthur as we were rounding up captured Death Eaters."_

" _Thanks. I didn't—I wasn't sure."_

_Shacklebolt gave her a sad smile, misunderstanding her words. "There's nothing wrong about being unable to conjure a Patronus in a war. You're a very talented witch, Miss Granger. I'm sure Remus conjured his because he was concerned that the battle had weighed on you. But your Patronus was there with his, just as strong, perhaps even more so." He lowered his eyes to nowhere in particular and chuckled. "As soon as we crossed paths with Minerva, you otter started bugging the poor wolf – it rested on his back, played between its legs…it was quite a sight on such a gloomy day."_

_Something cold whirled inside her stomach. "Professor Lupin was already out when I conjured it."_

_Shacklebolt's head jerked back slightly and his eyebrows shot up for a millisecond. Hermione didn't know the man very well, but something about the speed with which he masked his expression told her more than his words and his careful tone. "I'm sure he cast it before he was hit."_

_Hermione tilted her head to the side and evaluated the wizard._

_"Yes, I'm sure he did." was her reply. Yet she was convinced he hadn't._

"Hey! 'Mione!" A big hand waving in front of Hermione's eyes startled her out of her reverie. She looked up to see that it was connected to Ron's arm and body. Standing beside him, almost at the foot of her cot, was Harry. "How are you feeling?"

"I need more books."

Ron's face scrunched up in a grimace. "See, mate? She's just fine!"

And as Harry fought to suppress a smile, Hermione couldn't help but smile herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I really hope you like this chapter and I promise Remus won't be unconscious for much longer! lol
> 
> Bear hugs to everyone who left me kudos, to softday, BCgurlie, Love4Spock, and lanibb2013 for the comments and to dreamcatcherinthemoonlight, softday and lanibb2013 for adding the story to their bookmarks. You guys are awesome! :)
> 
> BHS


	5. Chapter 5

**Tie your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

It was on the afternoon of the fourth day that the answer clicked inside Hermione’s mind.

“That’s it!” Hermione snapped the book closed and reached for the quill and parchment lying on the nightstand. She jotted furiously on the few unused corners, dragging arrows around the written text and scratching the unanswered question marks that had plagued so. Drawing the quill away from the paper, Hermione scanned her finished notes, unconcerned by the two drops of black ink that landed on her thigh. A huff of breath escaped her lips – the half-diagram, half-essay made sense now. “How could I be so stupid?”

“Hermione?” the sound of Harry’s voice surprised her, even though he had been sitting at the end of her bed for hours now, his legs crossed and a thick book resting on top of them. Unlike her, however, he was still going through the same book as the day before, when he had volunteered to help.

“Borrowed magic! _Bond_ magic!” she beamed, and held out the parchment before him as if her thought patterns and conclusions were obvious. Her racing heart told her to get up and run or lean forward and hug Harry…who Hermione now noticed was staring at her with an amused smile. She lowered the paper and cleared her throat. “Sorry. Borrowing someone’s magic is extremely rare and almost unheard of. It requires a strong link between the two people _and_ physical contact. That’s why I was able to conjure Professor Lupin’s patronus – we share a bond.”

Harry nodded. “And you were holding his hand. But how?”

“He sacrificed himself for me. I owe him a life debt.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Life debts aren’t that uncommon, Hermione. Is that really what the book says?”

“Well, no, not exactly. There are a few mentions to family ties and soul mates, but that’s preposterous. Besides, being so rare there’s a chance this is the very first case of borrowed magic over a life bond! And if I can borrow his magic, maybe—maybe he can too.” Hermione bit her lip and climbed out of her bed, walking barefoot to the professor’s bedside. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the book and her notes clasped against her chest, and turned to Harry. “Will you stay? I-I think I need to touch Professor Lupin.”

“God, Hermione!” Harry pinched his eyebrows together, his eyes squinted. “The poor man’s asleep.”

Hermione felt the heat surging into her face, her breath frozen inside her lungs. But Harry couldn’t hold the expression for long, and his lips curled into a snicker. She exhaled, but her face remained hot. “Shut up, Harry.”

“You’ve touched him lots of times, don’t be so nervous.”

“It’s different. It’s not taking his temperature or helping him swallow a potion. It feels more personal.”

“If it helps save his life, I’m quite sure he won’t mind, Hermione.”

“Right.” She stared at the professor’s open hand for a moment. Taking deliberate and controlled breaths, she placed her hand in his and disciplined her mind not to think how calloused and strong it was – a command that remained unheeded.

Whatever little information Hermione had gathered about borrowed magic, the _how to lend it_ wasn’t amongst it. She focused on their joined hands for a full minute, trying to somehow make it so that her magic coursed through it. When she glanced up at him, nothing seemed to have changed.

* * *

By early evening, holding his hand had become quite natural for Hermione. If Madam Pomfrey had noticed the now closer cots and Hermione’s hand in Professor Lupin’s, she did so without commenting. She did, however, throw Harry out of the Infirmary for the night. He gave Hermione a tight smile and left.

The lingering occupants of the Great Hall were in bad shape and mostly in pain, and Hermione grew bored as they drifted into potion-induced slumber. Not that her own sleep was nightmare-free, but after her torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange Hermione had become accustomed to very few hours of rest, something she took as a consequence of war. Either her organism would recover by itself, or she would have to live with it forever – no amount of drugs, magical or otherwise, could change that.

At first, she had read through her notes again, but since information was scarce she finished it quite quickly. Then she had grabbed one of the books and leafed through it. An hour later, maybe more, she put it aside and lay down on the bed. She was about to roll to the side and swap the hand that was touching Professor Lupin when he moved.

Her whole body stilled and she waited.

His hand twitched against hers and Hermione shot up from her bed. She tightened her hold on his hand, ignoring the prickling feeling that shot through her numb arm.

“Hermione.” It was no more than a whisper, a hoarse murmur in the dead, cold silence of the Hall.

The jolt Hermione felt wasn’t just from surprise, but she did not dwell on the foreign sensation. She muttered comforting words while searching for his green eyes.

He was dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter! If you can, let me know what you think in the comments! If you're shy, don't worry, I get it ;)
> 
> Lots of hugs to everyone who left kudos, to lanibb2013, JustASimpleCanadian, and irish_angel for commenting, and to Love4Spock, Smt19, irish_angel for bookmarking the story. I really appreciate it! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another update, yay!  
> I must say that I have mixed feelings about this chapter. I love and hate it with equal intensity, and I've read it so many times I can't really tell whether it's any good. So please let me know!
> 
> Lots and lots of thanks for all the kudos you guys have left me, to JustASimpleCanadian, Fenrix_Shadowbane, AriFitzsimmons, and lanibb2013, for the comments, and to Fenrix_Shadowbane for bookmarking the story. :)

**Tie your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Hermione dreamt that night as well. She lay under a tree amidst a sandalwood forest, the sound of her breathing as her only companion. The mist diffused the first streaks of sunlight, enveloping the woods in a yellowish glow, but the early hour chill never brushed her skin, for she felt wrapped in warmth and contentment. Hermione closed her eyes and inhaled the earthy wooden fragrance, letting it lure a smile out of her. That scent, not castles or fortresses, had become her safe haven. Yet she turned and found herself falling.

Hermione’s eyes shot open as she realized she was indeed falling. Her stomach lurched as she reached out her hand, but her cold fingers slid over the smooth sheets. Something enlaced her waist, securing and pulling her away from the edge. She let out a breath.

“Hermione?” It was the same husky voice from the night before, the one that had called her name as if addressing an entire universe, the one that made her feel like a beautiful, vast secret. But the tone was wrong – it was less whispery, less tender. It bore the inquisitive inflection of a man who was now very much awake. “Hermione, is that you?”

Hermione stilled. Part of her brain had acknowledged it was an arm enlacing her waist, the part that had as evidence the sheet-covered chest she was facing, and the broad shoulder it was connected to. The dark-blond stubble down his neck and the thin white lines of scar tissue gracing his exposed skin confirmed her bedmate's identity. She was going to be expelled. Forever. From whatever institution. And that would be ending of the mortifying tale of how she spent the night in her professor’s bed – and got caught.

Her brain flared up. _How — WHY had her mind deemed lying in his cot acceptable?_

She had been curious. The night before, when Professor Lupin had muttered her name, she had wished she could invade his subconscious and uncover why dream-Hermione was there in the first place. Could he feel her? Did he know she was clutching his hand? Their bond…could it be possible he felt her magic racing through his veins like blood itself? Or did it stream like spring water, as it did in her mind? She had then cleared her thoughts and pictured it – to the point that it lulled her into a rest of her own.

Worse still than sleeping with a professor unintentionally, was that the sandalwood scent she had tied to feelings of warmth and safety came from him.

He removed his arm awkwardly, bringing her back to the situation at hand. And her reaction, albeit instinctual, was grounded in the finest common sense: she jerked up and away from him, until her back hit the metal grating at the end of his cot.

“God! This is embarrassing…” She cupped her hands over her face. The mattress shifted underneath her, and she slid her hands down, until her palms were pressed together in front of her mouth. She chanced a glimpse at Professor Lupin, who had pushed himself up to a sitting position, now keeping a proper distance. She forced her voice out, despite the thickness in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

His face displayed a tight-lipped smile but he wasn’t looking at her, his gaze trained on some particular spot of the sheet.

“It’s…it’s quite alright.” When their eyes met, however, his expression changed. He leaned forward, eyebrows wrinkled, and something shone in his eyes. “Surely embarrassment’s not enough reason to cry?”

“Cry? I’m not—I’m crying.”  A tear trailed down her face, and realization was all it took for others to follow. “I’m crying.”

“Shhh, it’s okay. Come here.” Professor Lupin swung his legs off the bed, sitting at the edge of it, and placed a hand on her shoulder, urging her to do the same.

“You were dying.” Her words and accusatory tone surprised her as much as her own tears had. Hermione felt rather than saw as he put the sheets over her shoulders. “Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey—you-you were dying.”

“I’m not dying anymore, Hermione, I promise. Can I get you something?”

She snorted, dragging the back of her hand over her tear-stained cheeks. “I should be the one caring for you. You need water, and I need to call Madam Pomfrey.”

“I’ve felt worse, I assure you.”

Hermione looked up at him only to catch him scanning the Hall, as if the Healer’s name was taboo. Whatever misconceived idea he might have about the seriousness of what he’d gone through, he seemed to take Madam Pomfrey’s fussing as a given because he added, “I dare say this is the best I’ve felt in years. Your mortification excluded, of course.”

His lips curled with just the draft of a smirk and Hermione gasped, yet couldn’t contain her smile. “Of course. If I may clarify, there _was_ an academic reason for that.”

“I’m sure there was. And I’ll love to hear all about it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but found no sarcasm in his smile. She returned it, and they both stared down at their feet dangling in the air, relishing each other’s company in the short-lived quiet before Madam Pomfrey started to make her rounds and found Professor Lupin awake.


	7. Chapter 7

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

“You seem to be in perfect health.” was Poppy’s final verdict. An incredulous, yet final one. It felt like days had passed since the Healer squeaked at the sight of him awake and proceeded to cast all sorts of spells one must learn as a Healer apprentice and a few more, yet it was still the same day he woke up with Hermione in his arms, only now they were hours into the afternoon and she had been shooed away rather indignantly by Pomfrey.

“Glad to hear it.” He replied and sat up, as he was allowed to move at last. Remus had had nothing but water, and was in desperate need of a shower. Harry had kindly brought him a change of clothes from his old room at Grimmauld Place, before being driven away and joining Hermione on a corner of the Great Hall as she waited. The pair hurried over to his cot as soon as he sat. Remus’ gaze flitted back to Poppy, “What was the diagnosis anyway?”

Something about the way she froze, her hand and cloth poised over a yellow potion bottle, bothered him.

“Hasn't Miss Granger filled you in?”

All eyes darted in Hermione’s direction, his included. Her eyes widened and a faint streak of pink tinted her cheeks. “I-I…”

Remus made an effort to keep a straight face, unwilling to make her even more nervous. Neither Poppy nor Harry would read anything into the situation, yet for her reaction one would think she was surrounded by Legilimens who would know at once where she had slept – and with whom. Remus cut in, “I'm afraid we were a little overwhelmed by my sudden awaken. I believe that my recovery wasn't a given?”

“Wasn't a _given_?” Poppy chided him, her eyebrows pinching together. “You ought to be dead by now, Remus, and I can’t tell how it is that you live and breathe. It was the same, you know. The same unknown curse we faced twenty years ago.”

Remus’ stomach sunk and he suspected that all the color from his face went along with it. “Who knows about it, Poppy?”

“Minerva, Kingsley...these two and myself. We haven’t told the others.”

Remus let out a breath, his shoulders slumping. “Can we keep it that way?”

She set the cloth down on the nightstand, her features softening. “Of course, dear. You should rest now. I’ll come back with something for you to eat.”

As soon as the Healer left, Remus turned to the young witch. “Hermione, I need to know what you did.”

“Nothing much, really.” She began, and gave him a brief yet precise account of events. “It wasn’t until yesterday that we figured it out. I assumed that if we maintained physical contact, you could borrow my magic as I borrowed yours. We share a bond, that’s why it worked.”

Remus tensed at the word, a reaction that earned him an askance look from Harry.

_No, she couldn’t possibly…_

“Bond?”

“The life-debt.”

He was careful not to let his relief show, sensing Harry’s scrutiny. The boy was the first to ask, “Why should we keep this a secret?”

Remus still remembered the sight – the high fever that never gave out, the utter stillness until the very end, when silent cries marked the triumph of the curse and the death of its victim. “This is the curse that killed Gideon Prewett, Harry.”

Hermione blinked. “Prewett as in…”

“Molly’s brother. I wouldn’t want her to be reminded of it, she’s been through enough.” _More than her share._

“But we found a cure.” Harry protested. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Hermione looked away, a hint of bitterness in her voice, “Accidental, and extremely rare circumstances don’t make for a cure, Harry. We were just lucky.”

Their gaze followed her as she crossed the hall towards the place Poppy was putting together some hospital food. Harry broke the silence, “This…bond isn’t about the life debt, is it?”

He hesitated.

“No, Harry, it’s not.”

“You should tell her. Whatever it is, you should tell her.”

Remus sighed. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“We’re talking about Hermione.” There was a bit of amusement in Harry’s voice that spoke for itself. Harry patted Remus on the back, before heading after Hermione and leaving him with his thoughts.

Perhaps it really was only a matter of time before Hermione put together another of his secrets. In fact, it was a feat to have kept it from her for so many years.

Remus ran both his hands through his overgrown hair. The truth was that when Remus woke up that morning, he hadn’t any need to ask who were in his arms. He knew exactly whom he kept from falling, whose heat he felt through the shirt.

He had known his mate for years – and it took all he had to let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 is finally up!
> 
> Let me know what you think :)
> 
> Chocolate frogs to everyone who left me kudos, and to AriFitzsimmons, BCgurlie, Ravenclaw250199, and Nessie_Lupin for the comments!


	8. Chapter 8

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

There was sadness in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. It was a common denominator these days, and most did a terrible job at hiding it, but not him. He’d look around the Great Hall sometimes, as if seeing it filled with cheerful conversation and students eager for the upcoming Quidditch game, until the picture faded to a skyless, sterile room with hospital beds and no owl post. But whenever a former student approached him, and many did, he’d offer them a smile, conjure up a chair and listen.

They weren’t visitors _per se_ , since most were also Madam Pomfrey’s patients, and the ones who weren’t had come to visit someone else, but Hermione would always catch the initial “ _It’s good to see you, professor,_ ” before she walked away and let them unload their story on Professor Lupin.

It bothered her.

Not a single one of them had caught that look in his eyes, nor had they questioned his  _“I’m fine,_ ” reply, and prodded a little bit further to find the actual truth. Sure, he  _looked_  well – and Hermione had to tread carefully with this subject, since the point was not to point out that Professor Lupin looked  _good_ , although she quite liked the way he had parted his slightly overgrown hair to the left, but rather to stress that his cuts hadn’t left any angry scars, and his bruises had faded quite nicely, plus he didn’t seem tired, which was probably the only good side of being comatose. Surely he looked well, but how could they just assume he was, when even they weren’t? And how could they just dump their burdens on him, then up and leave?

At some point, after yet another Gryffindor had left, she actually cast a Notice-Me-Not charm around their cots and sat on her bed, to wait for his actual visitors.

* * *

Remus watched as Hermione headed towards him, her annoyed expression dissolving into a self-satisfied smile as she sat down. The tingle of magic ran through his skin and he arched a brow at her, yet it only served to make her smile harder to contain.

Odd that after that no other student stopped by.

Poppy had yet to release her from the Infirmary, despite having no apparent reason to keep her there. He suspected it had something to do with his unexpected and inexplicable recovery, and Poppy’s fear of a possible relapse, which would be oddly superstitious of her. But then, as was the lack of protest on Hermione’s part.

He, on the other hand, was too much of a coward to send Hermione away or even to point out that their cots were too close and that they should space them further apart. But she had unconsciously reached for him that night, while sleeping, and he couldn’t bring himself to give up the peacefulness of her touch. Something she wouldn’t do if only she knew the actual nature of their bond. In that instance, at least, his cowardice proved itself useful – she’d always be safe from him because he would never tell her the truth. All he wished was that she never set out to find out.

Remus put the thought aside. At the moment, he welcomed her non-war related conversation; along with the subtle way she had tried to outsmart him into opening up to her.  He dodged the first two attempts, and almost fell for the third, until their game was interrupted.

“They were here when I came this morning, I swear.” Harry’s voice bursted their bubble and Remus caught the quick swish of Hermione’s wand.

“There they are!” Ronald was pointing at them, and the boys strode across the hall, followed by Minerva, Arthur, and Kingsley. Remus stood to greet them.

“I can hardly believe this.” McGonagall stared at him, wringing her hands in front of her, her lips pursed. “Oh, to hell with it.”

There was a moment when Remus’ mind blanked, and he had the younger Weasley to thank for voicing his own astonishment, “Since when does McGonagall hug people?”

“Ever since she started cursing, I guess?” was Harry’s hushed response.

“I do believe you forget I’m human.” She scolded, letting go of him and turning to the two boys. But her expression softened, and she turned back to Remus. “It’s nice to see you’re well.”

“Thank you, Minerva.”

The other men shook his hand, and they talked about his recovery. The neutrality in Kingsley's expression was enough to tell Remus he wouldn't get away with an ill-explained, small-talk version of what had happened, yet they shared a silent agreement, and Remus changed the subject.

“How are things outside?”

He wasn’t quite sure who cast the Silencing Charm, but Minerva was the first one to speak. “Hogwarts is in shambles. Most of the structure was compromised, but between the teacher and the volunteers we believe it’s possible to finish the repairs by the next term. We have orphans on our hands, but we’ve been managing. The Ministry, however…”

“You mean the council, Minerva,” corrected Kingsley.

“A Wizard’s Council?” Hermione snapped, her lips curled. “That’s retrograde! It was extinct ages ago, and for good reason. What of the Ministry?”

“It’s not permanent, Hermione,” Arthur assured her, “Just until the current members of the Ministry are investigated and another Minister is appointed.”

Minerva clenched her hands. “And we need to make sure Dolores Umbridge stays as far away from the post as possible.”

They all agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's another chapter!  
> I hope you enjoyed and let me know what you think!  
> Cherry-flavored Bertie Botts Beans to everyone who left kudos, to BCgurlie, lanibb2013, and AriFitzsimmons for the comments, and to Andimint18, and MeOverTheRainbow for bookmarking the story!  
> Thank you so much! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

They were both discharged at the same time, but Poppy pulled Hermione aside. Remus stood, scanning the now emptied room as he waited. He made an effort not to listen in – it was violation enough, he believed, to be able to pick up Hermione’s scent a mile away, and that he couldn’t help but steal glances of her whenever she was deep in thought, lost in the world of printed words and hardbound covers.

The Great Hall was restored in the same pace as the students’ health improved – slowly, and not quite the same as before. The teacher’s table was back in place, as were the Ravenclaw and Slytherin ones. The house flags, on the other hand, were nowhere to be seen, whether to indicate unity or to prevent more enmity Remus couldn’t tell. The aseptic, pungent smell lingered, and the once enchanted ceiling was a dull gray, reflecting not the sky outside but rather the color of its occupants’ souls.

He lifted his eyes to see if the conversation was over, only to regret his previous chivalry – Hermione’s expression had turned somber, hardened in a way he had seldom seen. She crossed an arm over her chest, her hand gripping her left arm.

He frowned, and watched more intently. Whatever had Poppy said to upset her?

The medi-witch head was down, as were the corners of her lips as gave Hermione something. Remus caught only a glimpse of it –a vial of sorts, glass, by the way it shone under the light– before both women minded their surroundings and Remus got caught watching. Hermione slipped whatever it was in her pocket and gave him a tight-lipped smile. Poppy, however, diverted her gaze, and busied herself undoing their cots and transfiguring them back into chairs.

“Is everything alright?” Remus asked as Hermione walked back to his side with a sort of deliberate strength to her stride.

“Yes. Shall we go, Professor? I honestly don’t want to spend more time here than necessary.”

“Alright.” He agreed, letting the matter slide. Hermione led the way through the large wooden doors and into the Entrance Hall. Remus added, “But I haven’t been your professor for years, Hermione. Call me Remus.”

She stopped, and there was a pause before she turned to face, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and her brows drawn together as if his request was both complex and slightly disparaging. For a moment he believed she would refuse, but she freed her distressed lip and a smile crept in. “I…will.”

But she didn’t. He arched an eyebrow at her. “Just not now?”

A coy smile permeated her reply, “Just not now.”

Remus chuckled, “Very well, I can settle for that.”

She tilted her head to the side, a glint of amusement in her eyes as she teased him, “Shouldn’t I call you Romulus instead, though?”

A breath escaped him, the memory of his –and the others – codenames still fresh in his mind. “So you’ve heard of that.”

“No, we heard it–you, all four of you, when we were out there in the woods.” Hermione looked down as if playing the memory in her head, “The Potterwatch… It was dangerous, and mad, not to mention the most brilliant idea I’ve ever heard of.”

“It was nothing.”

She shook her head, her lips parted. When she spoke, there was an edge to her voice. “How can you say that? We were isolated, and tired, and starvinsg and it made _all_ the difference. And that was just the three of us.”

His lungs expanded inside his chest, and it felt like breathing in first day of snow. It was irrational, but he couldn’t help feeling it. Hermione admired him – the feeling bled through her lecture, through her outrage in the most captivating way, and he found himself without words.

“Ah, Remus!” Kinsgley’s booming voice echoed through the hall, and Remus took a step back, realizing he was leaning a bit too close to Hermione. “I’ve heard you were being released. Miss Granger, how do you feel?”

“Quite well, thank you, Mr. Shacklebolt.”

“Call me Kingsley, please, if I may call you Hermione?”

“Seems to be a trend these days,” was her answer. But she assented, her gaze flitting to Remus. Her expression turned worried. “You don’t suppose Prof. McGonagall will have me call her by her first name as well, do you? Because that I can’t handle.”

“I believe you’re safe of that for now.”

 Remus felt the Auror watching their little exchange, his eyes darting between the two.

“Excuse me,” said Kingsley, “Have I interrupted your conversation?”

 “Not at all, Kingsley, I’ve just said the same thing to Hermione earlier. We were talking about the Potterwatch. You see, the Trio listened to one of our transmissions.”

“Oh, the last one, yes, Harry told me about it.” He said, and then turned to Hermione, “Right before you were captured?”

There it was again, the same protective stance Hermione had while talking to Pomfrey. Remus wondered if her shielding was meant to protect her from them. And he wished it was, ironically, for knew the alternative quite well. “Captured?”

“Yes. I-I need to find Harry, and Ron. They’re waiting for me.” And she fled, escaped their sight as fast as her legs could take her.

She wasn’t protecting herself. She was keeping something horrible within.

Remus resisted the impulse to follow her, turning to Kingsley instead, “Captured by whom?”

“Snatchers… Greyback.”

Remus had to clench his jaw to keep his chin from trembling. His skin felt like ice, a mere illusion since the blood simmered inside his veins, carrying the scream his entire being craved to utter.

“Did he bite her?” he managed, but the answer didn’t come fast enough. “DID HE BITE HER?”

“No,” Kingsley replied, “They were taken to Malfoy Manor. Something happened there. If half of what I suspect is true, the girl may need you. Don’t leave her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here’s another chapter! Sorry for the delay, I’m studying for my finals (read: cramming like there’s no tomorrow, lol).  
> I hope you liked it and please comment and let me know what you think!  
> Boxes and boxes of Sugar Quills to everyone who left me kudos, to Myna for commenting and to Kika912 for bookmarking the story. Thank you! :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

There was a creaky step somewhere at the bottom of the staircase – this much she remembered though the memory’s lack of precision was a bit of a nuisance. How was one supposed to flee from a familiar place when the familiarity of it escaped you?

She had walked down all the way to the fourth step, enough to hear the little sounds coming from the kitchen and adjoining living room – the non-stop clicking of knitting needles, and the scraping of a dish brush against metal, all of which went perfectly along the unlike mix of baked cinnamon and freshly cut grass. Hermione remembered all that, yet the precise step eluded her.

She wasn’t family. She had no business coming here the night before, yet she let herself be convinced for at the time she had also been escaping something. The war was over, but the nightmares of it would come to exact their revenge. Hermione gripped the handrail. She could feel it burning, her scar, as it did the day it was carved into her skin. Tears bubbled up in her eyes, the soothing, familiar background fading into darkness and mad, mad laughter.

“Hermione, dear, are you alright?” asked the plump, yet fierce witch, the very one Hermione had been meaning to avoid. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at Hermione. Bags marked her small brown eyes, and her fuzzy red curls had lightened to a dulled yellow tone, adding unwarranted years to her face.

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley. I’m terribly sorry to impose, Ron and Harry—”

“Oh, nonsense! Come, dear, sit down, you look like you could use something to eat. Can’t let your parents see you like this, now can we?” said Mrs. Weasley, motioning for her to come down.  The second step creaked, yet Hermione never registered it. She fought the new set of tears, rubbing her chest as if could alleviate the tightness inside. She wasn’t ready to talk about it. She wasn’t ready to even think it. Mrs. Weasley kept talking, oblivious, “Honestly, I don’t know how you three survived all this time by yourselves – mushrooms, for Merlin’s sake! And all that hospital food, too… You’re pale! Here, eat some, dear.”

“Thank you.” Hermione managed to say, more out of inbred politeness than of consciousness. Whatever hunger she might have felt had left her.

“You’re welcome, dear. Now, come, eat, you’ll feel better. The boys should wake up soon, Ginny too. Oh, there she is! Ginny, are your brothers—?”

Mrs. Weasley, however, never got to finish her question since Ginny jumped and clung at Hermione with such force she had trouble keeping herself seated. The attack jumpstarted her lungs and she got to breathe despite Ginny’s strong hold. The redhead didn’t seem to notice Hermione’s slow and controlled breaths.

Ginny flopped into the chair beside her, her shoulders pulled low. “I’m sorry I never went to visit you in the Infirmary.”

Hermione shook her head and attempted a smile. “I understand,” she steeled herself with a breath before continuing, now to both women, “I never got to say it, but I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

Mrs. Weasley’s fist shot to her mouth, and Hermione instantly regretted her mentioning it. “I—”

The apology died in her lips as Mrs. Weasley raised her other hand to silence her. “I know, dear, thank you… Now _eat_ , you two. I’ll go fetch the boys.”

Ginny gave her a half-smile. “Mom’s a little…all over the place. We know you’re the one that kept Ron and Harry alive all this time.”

“It’s not exactly how it happened—”

“Isn’t it?” And the amused smile that crept onto Ginny’s face was the only happy one she had seen all morning. “Because those two would never mistake a poison mushroom for and edible one?”

Hermione cringed. “Okay, perhaps it was a bit like that.”

“I knew it. Harry?”

Hermione shook her head, and her face twisted at the memory. “Ron.”

The girls shared a smile.

“Listen,” started Ginny leaning in, her voice dropped to a whisper, “Ron told me—”

But whatever Ginny was about to tell her concerning Ron was interrupted by Ron himself, as he and Harry joined them in the kitchen. “‘Morning.”

Ron yawned, a very loud, very long one that echoed like a call to his bed. Harry, on the other hand, circled the table, and kissed the top of Hermione’s head, before giving Ginny a proper kiss. He sat beside Ginny, whose eyes kept darting between herself and Ron as if waiting for something. His eyes never met Hermione’s, yet he had no reserve scowling at his sister.

Ginny just snorted. “And Mom?”

“Upstairs with Charlie, trying to get George out of the room,” Ron answered as he cut a slice of his mother Treacle Tart.

“How is he?” Hermione asked.

“Mad.”

“Ron!” she chided. Harry said nothing, but Hermione didn’t miss the way his hand snapping to Ginny’s arm. The younger Weasley’s face began to match her hair, her eyes narrowed at Ron. If she could use wandless magic, Hermione doubted he’d still be enjoying his breakfast.

“What?” Ron asked, swallowing a bite of the tart. “He is a bit. Don’t get me wrong, I miss Fred, too. He was a jerk, a brilliant one. But George…he came straight here after the funeral and has been staying in their old bedroom ever since. I thought he was depressed at first, wouldn’t talk to anyone, wouldn’t do anything but sleep. Now he’s locked inside the room, doing Merlin knows what. I think he’s messing with explosives, massive ones by the sound of it.”

“Maybe he’s working on something for the shop?” Harry suggested, in a feeble attempt of breaking the tension. His hand slid down his girlfriend’s arm and covered her hand.

“Yeah, right, if he plans on killing every kid in sight,” muttered Ron.

Harry was quick to change the subject. “I’m opening Grimmauld Place again.”

“As headquarters?” Hermione asked her eyes set on Ginny.

“And refuge. I think Sirius would’ve liked to have the place brimming with rebels, so I’m inviting the D.A. as well. We can’t fit all of them inside, but we’ll make do.” He looked at Hermione and Ron before adding, “Your rooms are yours should you want to stay permanently.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“That’s very considerate, Harry.” said Hermione.

He looked a bit…uncomfortable. “I’m keeping rooms for Luna, Neville and Lupin, too.”

Hermione would’ve indulged his attempt of deflecting attention regardless, yet she found herself genuinely curious. About one person, specifically, “Have you told them yet?”

“Just Lupin. I mailed him last night, but he declined.”

“Declined? Why?”

Harry shrugged. “Lupin’s a good man, but he doesn’t exactly volunteers information about himself.”

No, he didn’t. Come to think of it, Hermione never knew where he had stayed after they abandoned Grimmauld Place, or what he had done after quitting his job at Hogwarts.

The realization sat as a rock at the bottom of her empty stomach. Had she not cared? Had she not cared at all, before?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another chapter! This one was so difficult to write… it refused to come out and play, I guess my muse is missing Remus – I know I am. But our beloved future couple will see each other soon, I promise. ;)
> 
> Cauldron cakes to everyone who left me kudos, to Fenrix_Shadowbane, BCGurlie, and Carfaycor for the comments, and to paperjulia, soulsiphon, and TVTroy for bookmarking the story! :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the Order’s back! ;)  
> This is the longest chapter yet, and I had to cut some parts I wouldn’t have time to finish. I hope you liked it, and please comment and let me know what you think!
> 
> Many thanks to whoever left me kudos, and to Fenrix_Shadowbane for the comments :)

“They did what?” Hermione questioned as she got to the bottom of the stairs. A couple of feathers were floating through the air, left behind by the carrier of the news Harry had just announced.

Hermione eyed the parchment from a distance – it sat on the kitchen’s table before Ginny, yet Ron had slanted so close towards it, it was a wonder he hadn’t lost his seat and fell on top of his sister. The youngest redhead just rolled her eyes and huffed.

Harry acknowledged Hermione’s arrival by rubbing the back of his neck, his chin dipping down as he mumbled his response. “Named me an honorary member of the Wizard’s Council.”

“But that’s—”

“Fucking insane?” he suggested, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

“—wonderful.”

“Wonderful?” Harry asked, “Hermione, I know nothing about politics, or–or magical law, except for the cases when I violated it. I don’t even know what an honorary member does.”

“Well, not much. But it’s a start. And you don’t really believe we’d have you fend for yourself amongst the snakes, do you?”

As if endorsing her words, a barn owl flew in through the Burrow’s kitchen window, perching itself quite elegantly at the back of a chair. Harry offered it bits of a cinnamon roll and released it from its correspondence. Unlike the first owl, it left no part of it behind.

“Who sent it?” asked Ginny as Harry scanned the contents of the letter.

“The Order,” was all he said, and Hermione couldn’t be blamed for the smirk that formed in her lips.

* * *

Ginny had stayed at the Burrow, to cover for them in case her mom showed up. They had yet to tell Molly Weasley that two of her children, and two of her adopted ones, were to move to Grimmauld Place. They had, however, considered telling her about the meeting – an idea discouraged by a quick encounter with Mr. Weasley, during which he may or may not have hinted that it was too early to mention the Order of the Phoenix around her. The older wizard had added almost as an afterthought that Harry might have left some of his things in Grimmauld Place, and might need some help getting them, at which point his gaze traveled along herself and Ron.

The meeting had been scheduled to 7 p.m., but the participants started arriving way before that. Outside of the Trio, Neville and Luna were the firsts, followed closely by Tonks, who managed not only to trip over the umbrella stand but drag along the closest thing within reach, in a failed attempt to steady herself.

As it happened, the closest thing within reach was nothing other than the curtains covering Walburga Black’s painting.

“FILTH! SCUM! How dare you bring your dirtied heritage into my noble—”

“Nice to see you, too, aunt.” greeted Tonks as she got back on her feet. She set her robes straight, ignoring the string of obscenities being shouted at her, and reached for her wand. With a flick of her wrist, the portrayed woman was silenced, which only caused her lips to move at a furious pace, and her face to acquire a rather unflattering tone of red. Tonks turned her back on the painting, her hair now a fiery crimson, and entered the dining room, “Wotcher, guys.”

A very short, very… mauve wizard arrived next, whose hat was about the size of his own head. He lost a quarter of his stature by removing it as he was greeted by Luna, who was standing the closest to the doorway. “Mr. Diggle, I’m delighted to see you.”

“Miss Lovegood! Glad to see you’re well,” said the tiny wizard. He appraised her odd-looking earrings – which Neville had told Hermione were made of Sopophorous beanpods, more fit for potions than jewelry in her opinion – before he asked, “Still wishing to be a magizoologist, I take it?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, “I look forward to studying the Umgubular Slashkilter’s behavior. They’re such fascinating creatures, it’s a pity they’re so misunderstood.”

The blond witch tilted her head to the side and stared unblinkingly at Diggle, awaiting his reaction. Hermione smothered her own laughter as best she could, unwilling to offend neither her friend nor the wizard, who was now fiddling with his hat’s brim. “Er…yes, a pity indeed.”

He had given Luna the right answer in the end for she beamed at him. He replied the sentiment with what could be lousily interpreted as a smile, though his eyes were wider than usual and his gaze darted from side to side until he finally found Harry.

The next person to arrive was quite unexpected, but more so was Hermione’s own reaction to them. Her stomach made a flip inside of her, and her voice resembled a squeal as she cried, “Lee!”

The boy had a little trouble to maintain his balance as she flung herself at him, locking him in an embrace.

“I must have done something really smashing to get a hug from Hermione Granger,” he said, and she let go of him and nudged him in mock reproach, “What? Is it over already?”

Hermione was glad he had taken it lightly – it made it easier to conceal the reason for her burst of warmth. She had not seen or heard from him after the battle, and she had thought…. She had honestly thought….

Ron placed a hand on her shoulder and Hermione let out a nervous laugh.

Harry hugged Lee as well, in a less dramatic though not less emotional way. It was then that the remaining members of the Order arrived: Professor McGonagall, Mr. Weasley, Auror Shacklebolt – and Professor Lupin.

* * *

He saw her – standing by the dining room table, as her group of friends surrounded Lee Jordan. He had wanted to talk to her more than anything, but that would have to wait. He greeted them with a nod, and took a seat, content that the one she chose to take was almost directly opposed to his.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” said Minerva as the party got seated. She held a rolled parchment in her hands, and stood from her place at the head of the table, “Many of you already know, I imagine, that a Wizard’s Council has been established. The Council claims it’ll only exist for as long as necessary to perform a full ministerial investigation and rid the Ministry of Voldemort supporters. Some of us were invited to participate in it,” and she looked over her reading glasses at Kingsley and Harry as she spoke, then back at the parchment in her hand before resuming, “however, so were some of our greatest enemies. That horrible, toad-like woman being one of them.”

“Umbridge? How could they invite her?” Harry questioned, “even if she wasn’t working with Voldemort, and I doubt that very much, they share the same ideals. I saw her, locking away muggle-borns and accusing them of stealing wands. Hermione and I were there.”

There was a collective rising of eyebrows at that, and Hermione cleared her throat, her head held down. “Disguised, under the effect of Polyjuice Potion. We can explain that later.”

Kingsley brought the discussion back to its original course, “Umbridge has managed to fall through the cracks for now. We need to use whatever influence we have to prevent it from going further.”

A general agreement followed the Auror’s words, yet those words had a numbing effect on Remus. He lowered his gaze to the table, staring at no wood markings in particular as his friend words spread like a mass in his throat. He had no influence. And he couldn’t stand to undermine others’. He had known that, from the very first time he learned about the Council.

“About that,” he began, “I believe it would be best if I left the Order. I’m the weakest link, the werewolf, the one they’ll point fingers at. I was useful before, rallying werewolves to our cause, but I’m a hindrance to the Order now.”

He raised his head and faced Minerva, yet the verdict didn’t come from her.

“That’s absolute nonsense!”

Remus closed his eyes, but not before he caught the glimpse of a smile in his former teacher’s face. He let out a sigh, “Hermione—”

“It is! I have no idea what role you were given in the old Order, but we are the Order now, all of us. The nature of the fight might have changed, and not all of us are invited to play their political game, but we fought that war, we all matter. We mustn’t give up. We can’t afford to lose after we won.”

“We do agree wizzat, ‘ermione.” Fleur was standing in the doorway, Bill just a step behind, both smiling at the girl.

“Sorry we’re late, everyone,” muttered the Weasley as they took their seats.

“See?” Hermione asked, an almost smug smile on her lips as she continued, “You’re forbidden to leave us.”

The rest of the meeting passed on a blur, and both Minerva and Dedalus left right after it was over, while the others were led by Harry into the study. They dispersed around the room in either smaller or larger groups, and the study sprung up with chatter and fire. Remus stood at a corner with Kingsley, but couldn’t keep his eyes from darting towards Hermione. Neville had engaged her in conversation, probably the only one from the group he could talk about Herbology. Hermione would reply his remarks, correctly as usual, but without her characteristic enthusiasm. She would meet Remus’ gaze and bite her lip, before being dragged back to the subject.

Remus never noticed he and Kingsley had been silent for the past ten minutes, or that he’d been staring at the young witch for so long, until he realized Luna was standing beside him, her big eyes gazing up at him.

“Hello, Professor. How do you feel?”

“Hello, Luna. I’m quite alright, thank you, and you?”

“I am very well, but I’m not so certain about you.” She leaned in, cupping a hand around her mouth before adding, “You seem to have attracted a Ruoma. They are usually harmless but are quite vicious to people suffering for love. You might want to be careful.”

Her gaze wandered off, and Remus couldn’t whether it had stopped at Hermione then or if he had imagined it. “Thanks, Luna. I shall get rid of it.”

She stared back at him and smiled, then hopped her way to Arthur and Tonks.

Thunderous laughter resonated through the room and everyone, Remus included, turned to the source. Kingsley raised his hand in a dismissive gesture, “I’m sorry.”

After the conversation resumed throughout the room, Shacklebolt addressed him in a lower tone, “I must go, Remus, but I leave you in the best of hands. I believe your girl cares for you a great deal more than you imagine.”

His stomach churned. “What makes you say that?”

“You don’t protect someone from their own stupidity unless you do,” Shacklebolt answered and disapparated on the spot, leaving Remus to mask his irritation. Kingsley’s bluntness was quite an unnerving trait, given that the Auror seemed to know precisely when to show it.

Remus left for the dining room, to take his cloak and disapparate as well. He turned back at the scent of her. She had stopped at the end of the table, her hand on the threshold, and she never looked more beautiful.

“Will I see you?” Hermione blurted, and winced before continuing, “At the memorial, I mean. I had hoped we could talk?”

He gave enough pause to torture her, but his smile betrayed him first, “I’ll be there.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

The Memorial Day crept up on Remus as a snake upon its victim: slow in the arrival yet deadly in its lunge. His sober attire, the least worn piece in his wardrobe, was aired out and set aside days before _the day_ , and became the first thing his eyes focused on as he awoke. He stared at them, neatly folded atop the chair beside his bed, and wished he could close his eyes and join his friends in their oblivion.

Not that he could. Not that any merciful power would allow it.

Today was the day that the Wizarding World would honor their dead and move on to a better future. Such promise, however, was not extended to those of his kind. The only resemblance of a better future for him would include making sure his mate was safe and happy…with someone else. The only promising thing of the day, Remus mused as he put on his shoes, was that Hermione would be there, still an unofficial member of the Weasley family.

Or so he hoped.

Pushing away all murderous thoughts concerning a certain redheaded boy, he dressed himself and chanced a look at his appearance. The old mirror reflected a battered face, his lusterless skin marred with scars and an occasional gray amidst his sandy blond hair. And yet there were noticeable laugh lines as well. He wondered when they had formed. Were they exclusively from his time as a student, running around with the other Marauders and watching James' disastrous attempts to seduce Lily? Perhaps from the time Sirius enchanted every armor in the castle to dance La Macarena (the only muggle song he knew then) on the Slytherin table, to the despair of proud, pompous slytherins everywhere?

But then he knew they weren't. His lips twitched with a smile at the mere memory of waking up to find Hermione in his cot, sleeping peacefully by his side as if she had always belonged there. If he were to be truly honest, there had been a smile for every time she furrowed her eyebrows, a smirk whenever she worried her lower lip, and a snicker for all the times she took a teasing seriously.

There had been few lights in the darkness of his existence.

Hermione was his own private sun.

And it was her warmth that Remus wished he could conjure as he apparated directly to Hogwarts, right outside the Greenhouses. The Monument to the Light wasn't far from them – it had been placed to the east of the castle, right where the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest met the margins of the Black Lake. The walk there wasn't tiring and once he arrived he stepped through an archway, his gaze transfixed.

A stone pedestal stood at the center. Runic inscriptions had been engraved on each side, but it was the fire that drew Remus' attention. Perfectly above the pedestal yet not quite touching it was a Phoenix. Made from Everlasting Fire, a very powerful and ancient magic, the open-winged animal floated, its feathers burning in vivid tones of red, orange, and yellow and a long tail curled under its body swaying mere inches above the stone.

Unlike the real bird, this Phoenix was made to rebirth at its strongest, likely as a symbol to the lives extinguished before their time.

It took Remus quite an effort to divert his gaze from it and focus on the structure around it. High stone arches circled it as a temple, but there were no doors or ceiling and the space was broad enough to match the Great Hall, surpass it even. The walls between the arches were also engraved – on them were etched the names of women, children, and men–wizard or otherwise–whose lives had been lost because of Voldemort and his followers.

The victims were many.

Remus walked to the wall to the Phoenix' left and the reason for the absence of doors and ceilings became clear: the suffocating feeling that came with the recognition of a name. Earleen Abbott, Edgar Bones, Caradoc Dearborn… None of them were close to Remus, and yet…

"Why did they put an R there?" The question startled him, and he turned to find the Trio standing in front of the pedestal, apparently still oblivious to his presence.

"Honestly…It's not an 'R', Ron, it's a rune. That's Raidho, it means travel or journey."

"Travel?" Ronald asked, the puzzlement adding a high-pitch to his voice, "Why? It's not like they're going anywhere now."

Hermione snorted, but Harry was first to address his friend's callousness. "Aren't they? I don't know… I kinda think they are."

Other Weasley's arrived and the Trio looked around, spotting him as well. Hermione smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. She and Harry shared a glance before she nudged Ronald's shoulder. "Let's go with Ginny."

Remus turned to face the wall, as he waited for Harry to break the silence. The boy – man, now – walked over to his side.

"Sirius' name isn't there." Harry said, interrupting Remus' search along the first four stone walls. The list of names indicated an alphabetical order, and he should've spotted Sirius' somewhere before the Bones family. "I… I asked Professor McGonagall to place it next to my parents'."

"That was very considerate of you, Harry. There's nothing Sirius would've liked more."

There was a pause.

"I'm glad I didn't have to put yours there as well."

Remus chuckled and patted Harry's shoulder. "I'm not quite sure why I'm still here."

"I don't think my parents or Sirius would want you to die, Remus. I saw them, you know," Harry looked down, "The day of the battle. They were there with me. With us. Sirius said… Sirius said it didn't hurt. "

Remus swallowed.

"I'm sure they were, Harry, that they still are. But it's just hard, feeling as if you lost all your friends."

"You haven't, you know. You lost some of them."

* * *

Tonks and her mother greeted him when they arrived. The place was now filled. Bane and Firenze made a quick appearance before returning to the Forbidden Forest. Sevan, one of the centaurs who fought and died during the Battle of Hogwarts, had his name etched on the wall along with those of wizards and muggles who were killed.

After his conversation with Harry, Remus and Hermione hadn't had the opportunity to talk as she remained mainly with Harry and the Weasley's. And yet, as Minerva prepared herself for the speech, Hermione disappeared from sight.

Remus scanned the flock of redheads to no avail. Neville and his grandma were accompanied by Luna and her father, as they stood beside Alice and Frank's names. Although still alive, the essence of those tortured till madness was lost, and, therefore, the memory of their sacrifice had also been engraved. But Hermione was nowhere near the Longbottom's.

He felt her then, rather than saw her. Her fingers were cold as they slid down his palm and interlocked with his own. His heartbeat increased and a foolish fear of exhaling and scaring her off took over him. He must've tensed because she looked up at him with a half-smile and squeezed his hand reassuringly. It was a soothing gesture, one that held the risk of tainting her if anyone were to notice. He should refuse it, let go of her hand and keep her at an arm's distance, farther even. But the seconds slipped by and he found himself unable to. He exhaled and she didn't run, he inhaled and still the crowd seemed either unaware or uncaring that a werewolf was holding hands with a witch. And Remus allowed himself, just for the moment, to take comfort in her. He needed this, and somehow Hermione had known it.

Minerva captured everyone's attention, as she stood with her back to the Phoenix, with Hagrid just beside her. It would be a short speech, Remus gathered. Not that it meant it would be an empty formality, quite the contrary in fact. Teaching at Hogwarts, even if was for only a year, had given him a sample of how precious it is to watch children become skillful witches and wizards – and, more importantly, to discover their strength and forge their loyalties to the ones they love. And no other teacher there had lost so many students as Minerva.

She would not forget. Not a single one. Not a face, a grade, or a prank. It would be a short speech because loss can silence words, and words are merely that – they do reality no justice.

"We have come here today to honor the memory of fallen heroes," She said to the utter silence around her. "We ought not to, however. It is unjust and cruel for freedom to require death as a reminder of its own frailty. The taste of victory is not sweet in the face of such significant loss.

"They granted us a delicate gift. A deceitful one as well, since in time it will feel easy and natural to be free. It is not. Our freedom was not free. We have lost brave men and women, and their bravery should never be forgotten – it must stay with us, as their memories always will, and give us the strength to never stop fighting for what is right."

As she spoke the last words, there was a collective explosion. Wands were drawn everywhere with the speed reserved to those who had known war. But the flashes this time–green, red, purple as they had been that day–flew upward felling no-one, but instead sprinkling the sky with fireworks. The wands were dropped as the sparks took the form of faces.

Soon the sky was filled with people waving and smiling down. Right above him were James' parents, James himself, Lily, and Sirius. The latter winked at him and smirked while the other four waved excitedly.

Silent tears ran down his face, but Remus made sure to wipe them for fear of missing a single second of it. At his side, Hermione was also crying, holding his hand tight and looking all around.

The first person to break down with sobs was the youngest Weasley. Fred's mischievous face was up in the sky, yet she ran from the spot, crying out in a choked voice, "Ge-George!"

The other Weasley twin was standing behind the Phoenix wand in hand when she flung herself at him and knocked them to the ground. George stroke Ginny's hair as she seemed unwilling to let go of him. Soon, the whole Weasley family was around them.

Bill helped them up, and George addressed the crowd. "The fireworks are charmed. You can come whenever you want and speak to them. Just…just touch their name on the wall and they'll show."

"So that's what he was doing." Hermione whispered. Remus looked down at her, two fresh tears ran down ran down her face as she clarified, "George wouldn't leave his room or talk to anyone since the battle. This is the first time any of us sees him."

Witches and wizards went to him, shaking his hand, patting his back, expressing their gratitude. He would nod, not with the cockiness he once shared with his brother, but with the gravity of shared loss.

Slowly the crowd dispersed, but no one seemed ready to leave. Hermione was no longer holding Remus' hand when he heard her asking, "What is _she_ doing here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! I needed some time off, so... Merry X-mas and Happy New Year to all of you (really late)!  
> I wanted to write a happy chapter, to cheer us up from the loss of Alan Rickman, but I couldn’t make the story progress any other way… :(  
> I really hope you like it nonetheless. And may heaven look a bit like Hogwarts, so that magic always stays with him.
> 
> Huge thanks and plenty of Licorice Snape to everyone who left kudos, to Fenrix_Shadowbane and AriFitzsimmons for commenting, and to Lilac_Orchid, LostMoony, and Ravenclaw250199 for bookmarking!


	13. Chapter 13

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

 

 _“What is_ she _doing here?”_

Remus raised his head, following Hermione’s gaze. As off-standish as possible, Dolores Umbridge stood under an archway not very far from the Weasley’s, dressed in a dark gray tweed set with matching shoes and hat. A black veil dangled from the brim, partially covering her face as she dabbed nonexistent tears from her eyes.

There were no words for the anger that surged from within as the despicable, toad-like witch sniffed rather loudly, disturbing the families close to her. Anger that was equally mirrored in Hermione, for Remus had never seen her move with such speed as she advanced towards Umbridge. He followed but made no move to restrain her.

Hermione’s hands were balled into fists at her sides, her legs and torso stiffened as if they were being forced to stay put, but only barely. “You…vile, lecherous woman.”

Umbridge lifted her index finger.

“Hem-hem. Manners, Miss Granger! Although I can hardly blame you, with the company you keep…” the former undersecretary looked down on Remus, wrinkling her little nose, “A stray _beast_ Dumbledore picked up and treated as a pet.”

Hermione reached for her wand then, but Remus pinned her wrist down with just enough pressure to prevent her from casting a spell. “Hermione, she’s not worth it.”

Remus scanned the crowd – the commotion had started to draw attention, and it wouldn’t be long before Hermione’s friends and Order members reached them.

Harry was the first to arrive. “Why are you here?”

Umbridge upped her theatricals a notch, placing a hand over her chest as her mouth gaped open.

“Why? I am here to pay my respects to my dear great-uncle Wardell, whom I tragically lost during the first war. Miss Granger, on the other hand…” she set her large, bulging eyes back on Hermione, her tone a little condescending, “My dear, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you mourning? Your family, I believe, escaped the war unscathed. Haven’t they?”

Hermione’s wrist trembled under his hand.

Had that been a threat? Was that small, insignificant creature threatening his mate?

Their party increased just as the wolf riled up inside him. The cavalry had arrived at last - at his side stood Tonks, her hair changing violently from puke green to angry red and back. Minerva had her hand on Hermione’s shoulder, her cold expression set on Umbridge. “Dolores.”

“Minerva, what a pleasure!” said Umbridge, her girlish high-pitched voice did nothing for the wolf’s urge to bite whatever little neck she had and rip her head off.

Kingsley and Arthur were there as well, the latter addressed him in a quiet voice, “Remus, get Hermione out of here. We’ll deal with this.”

A second later, they were both standing in the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

.

Hermione lost her footing from the unexpected apparition, but Professor–Remus steadied her. Her gaze was set on the wooden table before her, but her sight had given way to a string of thoughts, images, and memories mashed together with all sorts of connections. Her family. The War. Death Eaters. Umbridge.

A noise brought her back – Remus had flopped onto the kitchen bench, his head down, eyes closed as he controlled his breathing. She wished she could do the same. She also knew that stirring into motion would disturb him, yet she couldn’t help herself. Pacing felt like doing something – it had sequence, pattern, all that her mind lacked at the time.

She was a few strides in when the conclusion hit her.

“She would have me branded just the same.”

She had back to Remus and nearly jumped when he spoke. “Hermione? What are you talking about?”

Years of never leaving a question unanswered kept her talking, yet a part of her mind knew the words were no more than ramblings to anyone but herself, “She sure looks prim and proper, but she’s just as mad and vicious. That’s a façade, she’s not a victim, she…she had no right to be there, no more than Bellatrix herself.” Hermione sat on the bench, her hand gripping her arm, and swallowed. Her voice was no more than a whisper when she added, “She would brand you, too.”

It wasn’t until he spoke that she realized her mistake.

“Brand?” Remus questioned. Hermione’s breath caught in her lungs, her chest heavy and cold. She glanced at the door and unconsciously smoothed the sleeve now wrinkled from her grasp. The wizard must’ve picked up on her body language as he placed himself in front of her, preventing her escape. The get up and run kind at least. “Hermione, show me your arm.”

His tone was neither harsh nor gentle – if she were to define it, her word of choice would be _commanding_. Part of her wanted to rebel at it, to forcibly protect the secret she had been keeping for the past month or so. Yet she found herself desperate to tell him, to share her burden with someone who understood the impact of skin-carved scars had inside. Not that Harry didn’t, but his never lessened him in any way. Hers, much like Lupin’s, marked her as something else, something different and inferior, and despite her knowing it not to be true, the violence of it was too great.

She rolled up her sleeve, not daring to face him until the complete word became visible. When she did look up, her eyes challenged him to cringe, to feel repulsed by it, but he didn’t return her gaze. Instead, he kneeled in front of her and took her reached out wrist into his hand. His fingers were lighter than a feather as they slid over her marred skin, sending a chill up her arm.

When looked at her at last, her defenses crumbled. His eyes had a vivid rim of gold that splintered into the forest green with such strength she caught herself fearing the wave of yellow would take over permanently. Yet there was beauty in it. A balance their owner himself had not managed to achieve. She swore she could see the wolf inside, a feeling that her rationality wouldn’t be able to shake.

From that moment on, he was Remus to her. Because she couldn’t fathom such an overwhelming desire to kiss a teacher.

And she would have – _they_ would have – if Harry hadn’t picked that exact moment to burst into the kitchen, looking for her.

This time, she hadn’t been the one to flee. Remus disappeared in a blink, and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder whether she was the only one keeping secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this chapter, I sure did ;)  
> Fizzing whizzbees to everyone who left kudos, to fernitron007 and AriFitzsimmons for the comments, and to PersianPenguin and KingAroBC532 for bookmarking!  
> Thank you!


	14. Chapter 14

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

No werewolf literature available explained – or even mentioned – the change of color in a werewolf’s eyes. Hermione knew so because she had dug all the volumes she already had and the ones she had temporarily stolen from Grimmauld Place out of her beaded bag as she packed her things. _Shorter snout, human-like eyes, tufted tail and a penchant for human-hunting_ – that was the information presented over and over, sometimes amongst characteristics made up out of sheer prejudice and downright fear.

Lies seemed to be ignorance’s best companion.

Yet the hypnotic gold stirred up a recollection of sorts, not of something she _read_ but rather of something she _saw_ – or thought she did. It was dark, that night years before when Remus had transformed as they exited the Shrieking Shack with Pettigrew as their prisoner. But twice that night she had gotten close to Remus in his werewolf form and her memory insisted his eyes had been fully gold then.

If that memory was indeed correct and her belief that his eyes were forest green hadn’t originated from a lack of close observation, then what could make the wolf’s eyes surface outside of the full moon? Was the wolf a separate entity, waiting to take control like an inner demon would? Would certain emotions inflame it? Had Remus been fighting it all this time out of fear of rejection?

Some of these questions she would never pose. Pity that the only person who could answer the others would never reply.

She had arrived at the Burrow the day before, after cursing Harry over and over with minor non-fatal spells as he kept sending her knowing glances. His smirk only vanished when she recreated a small scale Weather-Modifying Charm – the miniature rain cloud hanging above Harry and Harry alone had been worth the vengeance hug he gave her. Once they were inside, however, her mood suffered a setback.

“ _Hermione, I apologize for my behavior. It was inappropriate and won’t happen again._ ” read the letter Ginny gave her.

The formality of it stung. It didn’t quell her curiosity – it increased it. Was it inappropriate because he was older, because he was a werewolf or because he was afraid? Perhaps he had felt the wolf and it scared him. Lack of control scared her as well. Either way, as a friend she should try to understand him better. She had no ulterior motives to do so, and therefore there was nothing inappropriate about it.

White lies seemed to be hope’s best companion.

“Are we about to go on another Horcrux hunting? Or did you decide you were behind on your N.E.W.T.s studies?”  The door had opened without a squeak, and it was only when Harry spoke that she saw his head was poking through it.

Hermione glanced around the room she shared with Ginny. She had packed all of her clothes, therefore making space for over twenty books. There was not a single sitting surface available, and hardly any walking ones.  She looked back at him, her expression tight, and placed her hands on her hips.

“You should know better, Harry.” Hermione chided him and summoned a few books back into the beaded bag with a wandless _Accio_. “I’ve studied for N.E.W.T.s _ages_ ago.”

A smile cracked her serious façade and Harry joined in. They both knew there was a great deal of truth behind that joke.

He took a seat on Ginny’s bed and didn’t say anything else as Hermione collected the remaining books.

“Harry, what color are Remus’ eyes?”

“Remus, is he now? What happened to Professor Lupin?” The knowing glance and the smirk were back. So it was only fair that the cursing returned. Much like her Avis, Hermione enchanted the pillows to attack him. “Ouch! Okay, okay! They’re green.”

“I thought so.” Mysteries, mysteries…

“Hermione! _Pillows_!”

“Oh, sorry.” She flicked her wand and to make the two pillows fall and waited for Harry to arrange his glasses. “Are you moving to Grimmauld Place tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Harry shot a glance at her bag, his face puzzled, “Aren’t you?”

“I’m headed to Australia first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honeydukes chocolate bars to everyone who left kudos, to Polarskies for commenting, and to Liatho534 and GeminAi for bookmarking the story! Thank you :)


	15. Chapter 15

" _Blishen's Firewhisky, 250 years old_ " read the label of the half-empty bottle sitting on the kitchen table at Vine Grove's Cottage. Fresh, round stains marked the now worn pine boards – wood that despite the years still bore Remus' carved initials, long after its varnish cracked and peeled, the engraving a boyish attempt to protect his mother, by disguising his loneliness as boredom. He ran a finger over it – the sort of marking that sickly resembled another.

The bottle had been a gift from Sirius when the unruly Black converted his parents' house into the Black's worst nightmare. The animagus had welcomed him in, a glint of humor in his eyes as his mother screamed obscenities like a drunken muggle sailor. That observation alone earned Remus a smirk from his friend and higher-pitched shrieks from Mrs. Black's painting.

They didn't drink that day. The house was inhospitable – hostile, even – and yet their soberness was due to another reason – change was on the way. They both could feel it – a sentience that fired up their every nerve. The clarity that knowledge provided before the change itself swallowed them up in its tangled mess was the last they would have for a while. As seasoned survivors they basked in it, prepared for the worst, and hoped to Merlin for the best.

As he was about to leave, Sirius handed him the bottle.

" _To new, exciting times, Moony."_

Five words that had prevented Remus from drinking it the day his friend went through the veil, the day he lost Sirius and failed to protect Hermione. Since then, Remus had been reluctant to open it.

Until he failed her – again. He gulped the contents of his glass and set it once again on the table, a third wet stain intersecting with the first – or was it the second? – one. By accident, surely, for if not for his wobbly aim the liquid wouldn't have spilled in the first place.

He had drunk this way before – straight Firewhisky, intent on numbing the senses and causing a well-deserved migraine afterwards – when he resigned his job at Hogwarts. That day he had settled his affairs almost thankful for Snape's slip of tongue and tracked down Padfoot, a bottle of much cheaper Firewhisky than this in hand.

Despite what he led the Trio to believe, he remembered every second of that rotten night.

They had lost Peter, Sirius' only chance to be cleared of James and Lily's murder, and further antagonized and bullied Severus. His transformation had scared them all and he had viciously attacked his best friend as he tried to protect them. The wolf had wanted to kill Harry, to kill them all.

Except for Hermione.

And yet the one thing that haunted him the most from that night was her. The wolf had recognized her then – a sweet, intelligent girl, whose curiosity was only surpassed by her loyalty and whom Remus had teased inside the Shrieking Shack not five minutes earlier – as his mate.

If she hadn't been there… If _he_ hadn't been there… If he had transformed under the effect of the Wolfsbane… The possibilities of it never happening weighed on him since.

He rushed out of Hogwarts, equally wishing he'd see her soon and never again. It was the demise of sanity that he and Sirius mourned over several glasses. Fate had been unsatisfied with turning him into a monster and had furthermore condemned him to a greater monstrosity – that of loving a child.

They drank to a stupor – Sirius' wretched body and unstable mind in unison with Remus' doomed soul. If their friendship was ever strained, their misery reconciled them.

"You've been drinking."

The tone was wrong – much too deep, much too sober – yet Remus raised his head expecting to see Sirius there. He had delved on that memory for too long, enough for inebriation to temporarily erase his friend's death. A slip that a visit from Kingsley Shacklebolt to his house soon corrected.

"Astounding observation skills, Kings," he said, the slurring adding to his sarcasm, "No wonder they made you Head Auror."

The other wizard half-smiled and pulled himself a chair. He lifted the bottle, scanning the label and dipped it towards the table. The liquid fell inside a glass that hadn't been there a second earlier – a wizarding bar trick, certainly, that the auror must've learned to charm a few witches or trick his friends into thinking they were already hammered. Or both, most likely.

Remus snorted, unfazed by it. "What happened after we left?"

Kingsley sipped the drink, humming in approval, his manner relaxed, "A political crisis was averted by Umbridge's great-uncle. There was no love lost between them… I believe his exact word was ' _leave'_. She must have been counting on him being dead and silent, apparently."

"And her reaction?"

"That of a toad trying to look like a peacock. A gruesome image, I assure you. But she did leave, without a word. I am surprised, tough, that today's news doesn't contain any accusations towards George."

"' _Hooligan tampers with deceased heroes' behavior'_?" Remus sniggered, "I wouldn't put it past her."

"Nor would I." Shacklebolt emptied his glass before he continued, "I still don't know why we are drinking. Care to enlighten me?"

Remus looked down at the bottom of the cup.

"I'll take that as 'Hermione'. What happened?" Remus glared at him. "Alright, not happened, then. You do know that a conversation implies that both parties speak, don't you?"

Remus slumped into the chair, supporting his left elbow on the table as he buried his fingers in his hair. He wasn't sure he wanted to tell the auror about it until the words left his mouth, "I almost kissed her."

"And?"

"Harry interrupted."

"And you're drinking because you didn't or drinking because you tried?" "Look, Remus, this deeper connection or whatever it is that you too have is destroying you. Embrace it or leave it… stop punishing yourself. If she makes you feel that guilty, Tonks is still single. Take her out, have some fun—"

The werewolf's fingers had turned white around his glass, the material threatening to crack under his grip. His jaw was clenched and nothing about his body said 'slumped' or 'relaxed' – his neck was rock-rigid, the muscles in his arms and shoulders strained against his skin. It was all he could do not to bare his teeth at Kingsley.

"I _will not,_ " he said through clenched teeth, his nostrils flaring as he tried to breathe his control back, "betray my mate."

"Your eyes…"

Remus blinked, unsettled. He loosened his grasp on the glass and set it back on the table. He hid both hands under the table gluing them to his thighs and pointedly kept his gaze down. Only after a minute of scrutiny, he darted a glance at the other wizard.

"They were yellow for a moment…I think." Kingsley muttered, then glanced at the Firewhisky bottle and shook his head. "That's good stuff. Wait…your mate? You don't mean—since the moment you've found her—"

"Since the moment I found her, I'm hers until I die."

Shacklebolt's brows gave a slight twinge – the equivalent of furrowed brows for him – before he spoke. "You must tell her. Hermione is a sensible witch, if anyone would understand—"

"I'm hers, but she doesn't belong to me. She doesn't have to. She can fall in love and live a happy life with someone normal."

"While you remain alone for the rest of your life? You certainly give new meaning to the expression 'lone wolf'."

"It's not some _sacrifice_ that I'm doing. It's sick – this whole bond is just a cruel joke. I'm not about to ruin her life for something a werewolf – a _monster_ – decided."

"Well, however you handled it, it worked. Just before I came here, Harry told me that she was leaving."

A single sentence, more powerful than best concocted Sober-Up.

"Where?"

"To see her parents, I think," Kingsley intentionally raised an eyebrow, "Does it matter?"

Remus scrambled to his feet and rushed to the small countertop under the kitchen's window. It was clean, and dry, and clear of everything except for two closed envelopes, delivered earlier that day by Pigwidgeon. He had gotten them already drunk, separated by what he judged as a few hours, and dropped them there as he wallowed in disappointment and self-pity.

The first envelope read " _Remus_ " in neat, legible letters, with a slight slant to the right – Hermione's handwriting. Not that they had ever exchanged letters, but the long, thorough essays, always a few extra inches than requested, had been note-worthy even before the bond.

 _Remus_. His pulse raced and his body seemed conflicted – his chest radiated warmth yet his stomach resembled a thunderstorm, cold as the pounding rain, with a single electrical jolt that traveled through his entire body at the sight of his name. It was the first time she had ever used it.

The second envelope, however, was addressed to " _Professor Lupin_ ". The use of the title had been deliberate – he had either infuriated or exasperated her, perhaps both. He saved the other letter for later and broke the envelope seal. He took the piece of parchment out and skimmed through the few sentences it contained until he found what he was looking for.

His hand trembled; elation gave way to a cold sweat. The letter slipped from his fingers and fluttered its way to the floor.

"Call the Order and your contacts in Australia, we need to find Hermione," Remus managed to say in a quiet voice, his gaze fixed and unseeing, "We need to get to her and her family before Umbridge does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another chapter up! Hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who left me kudos, and to LillinPortia and AriFitzsimmons for the comments!


	16. Chapter 16

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

The sky was a blend of denim and orange when they left Vine Grove's Cottage. The hue did little to improve Minerva's complexion after the news concerning Hermione had drained the color from her face. Their brief meeting left one thing clear – Minerva would _not_ allow anyone to touch a hair of her brightest pupil, least of all, in her words, that farcical depiction of a witch.

On that, they fully agreed.

The assigned party was small – Kings, Nymphadora, and himself – and they would leave for Australia almost immediately. They had to apparate someplace first.

"Wotche—" Tonks' greeting got cut short as she toppled over something and landed on the wood floor with a thud. From where Remus stood, at the bottom of the stairs, he couldn't see more than the two pairs of tangled feet. That was one foot too many from the troll-leg umbrella stand she usually knocked down – more human, too. Nymphadora groaned and pushed herself up to her knees, "My bad, Harry."

The words had no sooner left her mouth when the house hound sounded the visitor's alarm, "YOU FILTH, HALF-BREED—"

Remus had his wand at ready. He silenced Mrs. Walburga Black with the speed of someone used to arrive at Grimmauld Place accompanied by the metamorphmagus. Harry propped himself on an elbow and rubbed the back of his head, his glasses precariously balanced on the tip of his nose. Remus had seen that picture several times before, whenever James got knocked to the floor by Lily's _UGH!_ - _GO-AWAY-POTTER_ spells. Although Harry lacked his father's crooked, delusional _She's-warming-up-to-me_ smiles.

Nymphadora was more or less up and stable by the time Remus managed to shake the déjà vu feeling, her hand reached out in an offer to help the black-haired boy up.

"It's fine, Tonks," Harry declined – he was certainly much more sensible than his father had been at this age….or ever.

"Suit yourself…" Nymphadora shrugged then stopped in her tracks, "Merlin's pants!"

The then pink-haired witch gawked at the room, her hair turning neon-bluer by the minute, and ran a finger over the closest shelf, her head cocked to the side as she checked her fingertips, "This place looks almost livable now!"

"We've spent most of the day cleaning it," sang a voice. Luna climbed up the basement stairs, carrying a rusty brass cauldron in her arms, followed closely by Ginny, who balanced a tray with an unsorted assembly of Kreacher's meager utensils and the House of Black's green tea set piled on top of it. Harry got to his feet, grabbed a black garbage bag and held it open for the two girls. Once they disposed of their load, he laid it under Mrs. Black's portrait, who had watched the scene with bulging eyes and had recoiled further into the darkness of her landscape. Luna pushed her hair out of her face, leaving a coppery smear on her forehead, and added, "Most of the furniture seems to have been Nargle-proofed."

"Or Mundungus-proofed, Kreacher must've seen to that," said Harry, "They're Accio-resistant, so we're tossing them the muggle way."

A snort echoed from below, followed by heavy stomps getting louder and louder. The top of a head came into view – brown hair, followed by the features and stature of…Ron?

"Bloody house makes Hogwarts' detentions look like a sodding training," he muttered as he climbed the basement stairs. A coat of dust seemed to have settled on his hair like soot, yet the boy was none the wiser. His eyes glinted once he caught sight of the recently arrived party, "Are you here to help?"

"Yeah, right," Tonks answered with a blatant smirk on her lips, "We're here on Order business."

Ron rolled his eyes, "Figured…"

Meanwhile, Ginny had caught sight of her brother's state and pressed a fist to her mouth, a snigger or two escaping regardless. At her side, Luna was staring at her with unblinking eyes, as if brown-haired Weasley's were a common occurrence. Through fits of muffled laughter, the younger Weasley attempted to cast a " _Scourgify"_ , to no avail. Her failed tries kept blowing her brother's hair into his face, which would, in turn, send her back into hysterics. Harry simpered at his now tomato-red girlfriend and whispered the incantation himself.

That comical, sweet scene peeved Remus the most. He had yet to say anything – that purposeless conversation while Hermione needed him had Remus crawling inside his skin. A part of him wanted to admonish them and had them sick with worry and guilt about the friend they were neglecting – his _mate_. Still, none of the younger Order members had been informed of the situation, or else they wouldn't be babbling nonsense about housework or laughing at infantile stupidities. Their lack of knowledge was perhaps the only cause for Remus' restraint – he too had been unaware of any menace not an hour earlier, and any harsh words crossing his mind should have no other target than himself. His jaw felt sore from his gritted teeth, his arm muscles taut from his ironclad grasp on his wrist.

Harry narrowed his eyes at him – either his silence or his stance betrayed his temper, "What happened?"

Remus let out his breath in an effort to relax his muscles.

"We're looking for Hermione," he informed the boy, somewhat managing to keep his professorial tone, "Did she tell you where in Australia she was going? Think carefully, Harry, it's important."

"No," Harry replied, "As a matter of fact she didn't. All she said was that she was meeting her parents there. Why?"

Ginny, whose fit of stifled laughter had died with the change of mood, kept flitting her gaze towards her brother. She moved to stand beside him, and laid her hand on his arm, "Ron, did she say anything to you?"

"She barely spoke a word to me since…" his face flushed and he seemed to rethink his train of thought, "No. Is she in danger?"

"Knowing that pink bullfrog, probably." Tonks thought aloud, then quickly added, "But the official answer is 'only over our dead avada-kedavrad bodies'. Or something like that."

"Umbridge?" more than one of them asked, followed by another question not a second later, "She threatened her?"

"Not with so many words… She inquired about her family." Remus said.

Ginny's expression hardened, her eyes bleak as she inferred his meaning, "That woman's questions are never innocent."

The weight of her words was absorbed in silence. The girl tried to catch Harry's gaze, but his eyes were fixated on the floor.

"I was there," Harry stated, his eyebrows drawn together. He lifted his gaze and stared straight into Remus' eyes, "I didn't—I didn't think—"

"You were grieving, Harry. It's not your fault." _It's mine._

"I'm going with you."

"No," echoed Kingsley's deep voice, deprived of his usual charm, "We must keep a low profile, the less attention we draw the easier it'll be to get them back safely. You're too popular."

"I'll go," offered Luna, who Remus wasn't entirely sure had been keeping up with the conversation. "I'm fairly unknown, and I can convince some Kairas to help. I can talk to them, they're great trackers."

"I'm coming, too," Ron said, and added before Kingsley could rule him out, "There're plenty of Weasley's in Australia, I won't stand out."

Remus exchanged a glance with Kingsley then nodded. "We're leaving immediately. Harry, if Hermione contacts you, tell her to come back and let us know."

Harry pulled Ginny against his shoulder and assented.

Their portkey had been a fake pearl necklace arranged by Minerva, made with round plastic beans whose painting had already peeled off in several places. They held it together and, despite the distance, the journey took no more than a second. Ron and Tonks had a bit of a rough landing.

The change of setting couldn't be more drastic. Burwood, Sydney, was a suburb comprised of houses with gable roofs, verandas, and terracotta tiles contrasting with the white fretwork patterns and windows. The streets were still deserted and the morning chill pierced through their light, summer robes. Remus could feel the cold in every bone and joint, broken and strained remnants of his transformations. His scars bit under the wintry breeze – a singular ache, almost as a reminder of where the foreign tissue lay. As if the mirror would allow him to forget.

Furthermore, the bare trees of early winter were in accord with his disposition – the lack of snow and of any vestiges of flame-colored leaves painted a somber, deaden picture. He cast a Hot-air charm over himself and the other and pulled his robes tighter around his shoulder. "Let's get going."

* * *

It was late afternoon when they arrived at Engadine. They had searched for almost a day, scouring every suburban area and business districts in Sydney when a bright, deer-shaped mist bolted from the outskirts of the Royal National Park woods. They cast muggle-repelling charms around it as it crossed the rails and Princes Highway to meet them.

" _Hermione sent me a letter,_ " said Harry's voice as his Patronus approached them, " _She said she arrived well but not much more than that. There's no return address, she must've sent it yesterday."_

The animal dissolved into the air, making it lighter somehow. After hours without any news, Remus' lungs welcomed the crisp air like one would a fresh start. They could continue their search now with invigorated hope.

Fate, however, would have none of it.

"Remus," Kingsley called, his tone commanding, "You need to leave."

"No! This news changes nothing, Kings, Umbridge might still be after her. We can't—"

"We won't give up on the search, you will," the Auror interrupted, "It's the full moon today."

Remus looked up. The sun had yet to set, but the moon's silhouette had started to show.

"I'll transform here. I can go deep into the Park and—"

"You need to leave Australia. Werewolves are banned from the territory, and barbaric as it is, the hunt is legal."

Remus had never seen himself in Sirius' shoes before then. On a rational level, he understood the need to leave – the danger to anyone involved would be too great. Still, his every fiber protested against the decision. Siriusesque machinations manifested in his mind like the flip of a switch – he could try to disillusion himself before he underwent the transformation, or find a hole to hide until he turned human again. Alternatively, he could go to New Zealand or to some Australian island, Tasmania even, where the chances of coming across people, magical or otherwise, while in werewolf form would be slimmer. And then, the Sirius-inspired pinnacle occurred to him, "I'll go back and wait for the night to be over and return immediately."

"And not turn?" Tonks asked, "You can't trick the wolf with different time zones. It can get ugly."

"Tonks is right," Kings said with that infuriatingly impassive tone, "The full moon will show in England in fourteen hours, make sure you're there."

Remus straightened his back. He could feel his own tension from his glaring eyes to his corded neck and square shoulders as he took a step towards the wizard.

"I wouldn't worry," interfered Luna, but it wasn't until she continued her sentence that he paid her any heed, "She's smart, she'll find her back to you."

His eyes darted to the blonde witch to find her staring at him. Not at Ron, as he would expect. His posture slumped a notch, and he opened his mouth with no reply in mind, which didn't prove to be necessary as the Head Auror took advantage of his distraction and shoved something into his hand. Remus blinked at the sight of the fake pearl necklace, and it was all he had time to do before he was hooked and drawn into the object.

A millisecond later he was in London.

He cursed. He cursed like he hadn't in a long while. He cursed like he hadn't since Sirius' supposed betrayal. He _needed_ a Portkey… he needed Minerva.

"Absolutely not, Mr. Lupin," said the witch as she tied the knot of her robes tighter, her gray hair braided over her shoulder as she fumbled around in her office. She had clearly been sleeping.

He drew a slow, steady breath, "Kingsley had no right! I need to get back there."

"Kingsley acted on my orders. I am protecting your ungrateful, reckless arse, which I suggest you get out of my school now." He wanted to _throttle_ her. And he so wanted to take Snape's sneering portrait off the wall and smash it against the table – the thought was certainly pleasurable. But then, Minerva added, "That girl stood by your hospital bed days on end, Remus. Don't make it so that I'll have to tell her you threw your life away because of one day. One day. And if we still haven't found her by then, I'll not only provide you with a Portkey, but I'll join the search myself."

He scowled at Snape, gave Minerva a sharp nod and left. He couldn't take it out on the castle's walls, not with the effort being employed to restore Hogwarts' structure. He wished he could transform then – the wolf would certainly run his anger out. As it was, though, Remus apparated to a muggle neighborhood and took it out on… groceries.

He grabbed and stuffed the things he would need for the aftermath of the transformation with such strength that the bread was permanently shaped with the indentions of his fingers. The cashier refrained from offering him a loyalty card, his hands trembling as he passed Remus another plastic bag after the first got torn due to Remus' rough handling of it.

He looked around once he left the store. He had picked that neighborhood to torture himself. It was early morning, the street had but a few pedestrians, and he was standing not a couple of blocks from Hermione's house. She wouldn't be there, but he needed something – a faint smell would do to both calm and torment himself.

* * *

Hermione sat on a park bench with her bag at her side and a book in her hands. She had chosen that particular bench because it sat under a light post, a necessity when one wished to read in a park in the middle of the night. Not that she read, really - she had it opened on where the frontispiece met the title page and there it remained for the entirety of the night. Once morning came, or rather when she noticed morning had come, she closed the volume and thrust it back inside her purse.

She was being silly, really. Of course she could do it, she had done harder things. Impossible things, even.

Getting inside her own house should be child's play.

She got to her feet and strode towards her house. Her house. Her empty house.

She faltered. Perhaps she didn't need to get inside this time – perhaps she could do with just looking at it. Baby steps… to the most pushy witch alive.

She did look up only to find Remus John Lupin in front of her. He couldn't see her, but something about his flaring nostrils…

He could smell her. He could smell her just as Greyback had back in the forest. "Hermione?"

She panicked for a second or two before she reached for her wand and allowed him into her protective spell.

"Um, hi. What are you doing here?"

Remus was torn between hugging and shaking her. It was never a fair fight, however, and soon he had his arms around her, and might've even placed a kiss on top of her head as he breathed out, "Thanks to Merlin."

"Remus, hold on!" Hermione gently pushed him away so she could see his face, "What happened?"

"You went to Australia. Umbridge could have…"

"I used an Untraceable Portkey," her eyebrows were drawn together, and she gave him a tight-lipped smile, "They're not exactly legal, but… Suffice it to say I was never in any danger."

"I need to notify the Order" He dropped the groceries bag and reached for his wand.

"The Order?! I—"

"I need to know where your parents are, they can bring them here."

"Remus—"

"They were at Engadine when I left, we assumed Sydney… _Expecto Patronum."_

"—I'm an orphan."

The mist disappeared from the tip of his wand. He didn't seem to be breathing, and once he finally spoke his voice was hoarse, "Your parents...?"

"Oh, no, they weren't killed, they just... I obliviated them," Hermione drew a breath and trapped it in, trying to keep the sobs from coming. Her eyes misted, but she held back the tears, "I erased… well, me."

"Harry, Ron?"

"I told them I was going to Australia to track down my parents. I didn't— I couldn't—"

"Tell them the spell was irreversible?" Remus finished her sentence.

Her chin quivered. "It was not for their sake, not because I believed my friends had already been through enough and I thought ' _I'll spare them and deal with this on my_ _own'_. It was not because I'm strong, it was because—"

"You're weak." There wasn't a hint of cruelty in his tone, but she stiffened regardless, "Words are a powerful thing, Hermione. The ones we say and the ones we don't have such hold over us. You haven't told them not because you're weak, but rather because saying the words would make it real."

"And it is _real_! It's _all_ real now!" The first tear came, followed by many others. And then she was once again in his arms.

Hermione barely felt the soft pulling sensation as he Side-long apparated her. If hugs possessed any uncanny ability it was that of being both destructive and comforting – his tore through her last wall and wrenched the hurt out of its cracks, making her cry harder than ever before. She counted in tears the minutes past until her sobs quieted enough for her to hear the steady, soothing sound of Remus' heart. Her face was pressed against his chest, over the wet blotch of her own tears, and still she could feel his warmth radiating through his shirt.

He had her sit on a comfy sofa, and she blinked, "Where are we?"

"I hope you don't mind… I, ah, I brought you home with me."

Hermione ran a hand over her tear-stricken face, "Thank you."

Remus gave her a half-smile, "I'll make you some tea."

She toed off her shoes hoping Remus wouldn't mind and hug her knees against her chest. His house wasn't big, but something about the rustic furniture disposition and the way the sun rays infiltrated through the windows made it infinitely cozy. She just stared at it, her mind blank, until the kettle whistled and Remus returned with their tea.

She reached for the closest mug, but he pulled it away.

"No, here," he extended her the other mug, "It's Valerian root tea… it's supposed to be calming."

Hermione took it and thanked him. The tea smell along with heat from porcelain mug providing her with much needed comfort. Remus sat at her side and they drank in a silence.

"Crookshanks was there," Hermione finally said, "I had left him at the Burrow, I don't know how he managed to go to Australia but he did. He protected them."

"He's the clever pet of a clever witch, he'd find a way," Remus took a sip of his tea, he didn't seem to care very much for it, whatever it was, "Did you bring him back?"

"No. He chose to stay with them. I guess at some point I'll have to get another pet. Ron hated him, even after his rat turned out to be Pettigrew. He keeps telling me how useful an owl is."

"You don't have to get another pet unless you want to, Hermione."

"I know," she said somewhat drowsy, the price of spending the night awake in the park finally weighing on her. She leaned her head on Remus' shoulder, her empty mug still in her hands. He tensed before he pulled her into his chest and reclined on the sofa's arm. She felt as he cast a spell and whispered a few words, but her mind didn't quite process them.

Her breathing evened out and the moment came when she couldn't tell apart reality from dream. Whichever it was, though, Remus was there with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes on this chapter:
> 
> 1\. I've never been to Australia (or England, for that matter), so bear in mind that any locations/descriptions here were fully based on Google Maps, Wikipedia and my own imagination. I did my best not to make any crass mistakes, I apologize if I inadvertently did (and feel free to correct me!).
> 
> 2\. There was some head-hopping in this chapter. I've been keeping Remus and Hermione's POV separate by scenes until now, but I'll need to hop a bit as their romance buds. I hope you guys don't mind it too much.
> 
> My most sincere thanks to everyone who left me kudos, to LilianPortia and AriFitzsimmons for the comments, and to AriFitzsimmons for bookmarking the story :)
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!


	17. Chapter 17

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Hermione drifted into consciousness without opening her eyes. It was still bright outside, though no longer morning, if the maroon color behind her eyelids was any indicator. Yet their body temperature – and Hermione planned to tease Remus mercilessly about how much more “inappropriate” their current position was – had fallen considerably. She snuggled closer to him in a bold, yet perfectly reasonable, attempt to steal his warmth from under his robe.

A chill ran through her body, and Hermione’s eyes snapped open. Remus was freezing, his cardigan soaked underneath her.  She pushed herself to her knees with the seat cushions as leverage and looked down at his face, which was now yellower than a piece of parchment, his forehead and upper lip coated with a sheen of sweat.

“Remus?” she called, placing the back of her hand to his cheek, “Remus, wake up!”

Remus’ eyelids battled him as he tried to lift them. His eyes felt raw as his pupils adjusted to the clarity, but he didn’t blink – Hermione was hovering over his body, her knees flanking his hips and her hand on his face. He swallowed, dry-mouthed. He knew it was not a dream – he would never allow himself to have such farfetched dreams – and he could feel the wolf reveling in the feeling, his instincts pushing to take over, but nausea hit him like a punch. He shivered, drawing his elbows closer to his body. It was only then that his brain managed to process Hermione’s expression – yes, her knees were at his sides and yes, she was poised inches above him, but her eyebrows were pinched and her eyes unsure. Moreover, the hand the wolf believed had been caressing his face was, in fact, taking his temperature. Remus’ stomach clenched, this time not from nausea – if it was implausible as a dream, why wouldn’t it be so as reality?

He propped himself up on the arm of the sofa, and Hermione moved to sit at his feet, twisting her hands together in her lap, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he should’ve made her leave sooner.

“This doesn’t look like nothing, Remus—What…” Hermione’s voice quavered, and she hated herself for it, “What day are we on?”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, but it didn’t hold, “It’s not like you to ask questions you already know the answer to.”

“It’s wrong, something’s wrong. You’re supposed to feel weak not freeze and break out in a cold sweat!”

He didn’t comment. With any luck, she wouldn’t find out.

Hermione grabbed her purse from where it lay abandoned on the ground and reached deep inside of it, pulling out a robe and a bath towel. She transfigured a blanket out of the former and shrank the latter to the size of a hand towel. She wrapped the blanket around Remus and stood to wipe his face. Flames roared in the fireplace behind her, and Remus couldn’t tell whether she had cast it with wandless magic because his vision clouded with light-headedness. Along with the blurred edges came a stronger wave of nausea. Hermione conjured a bucket just in time - he doubled over it as she held the towel to his forehead, her free hand rubbing his back over his soaked, clingy clothes.

Through the breathlessness, the shivers, the stomach contractions, the raw throat, and the bile, the heaving ceased.

Hermione walked over to the adjoining kitchen to fetch Remus a glass of water. She took the towel with her and dampened it at the sink. He had emptied the bucket by the time she returned.

Hermione handed him the glass and pressed the wet cloth against his temples, his cheek, and all the way down to his neck. He stole a glance at her face as she took care of him – her hair was pulled back on a loose unruly bun, her almond eyes soft and caring. He could get used to this – except for the fact that he shouldn’t.

“I’m sorry, you didn’t have to,” Remus said.  

“I don’t mind,” she answered, her eyes focused on the task at hand, “What I do mind is not knowing what’s going on.”

Remus sighed, so much for hoping she wouldn’t press the matter, “I’ve been trying to find a way to make the wolf weaker.”

“And?”

He didn’t answer, but his eyes flickered to the mugs lying on the small table between Hermione and the fireplace. Following his gaze, Hermione frowned. She grabbed his used mug from that morning and took a sniff – the smell was familiar. Potion-wise familiar.

“You drank an Aconite infusion. Are you mad?”

It explained the sweating, the cold, the nausea – he had poisoned himself. Hermione dropped to her knees and snatched her purse, abandoning the mug on the carpet. She had kept Harry and Ron from any poisonous food while on the run, but she had packed an Antidote for Common Poisons regardless, she was sure of it.

“It’s the Wolfsbane potion’s main ingredient.” Remus explained, but she could barely focus on his words as she knocked over books, clothes, and other essentials inside her purse, her hands clammy. “It won’t sedate the wolf, but it’ll slow him down. It’ll be hard for it to move around, or so the books say.”

“Books from when? The 16th century?” she cried, and whipped her wand, “ _Accio_ Antidote!”

She caught the small vial as it flew out of her bag and struggled to uncork it, her hand slippery.

“I’ve done this before.”

Hermione halted. After crying that morning, she believed she must’ve exhausted her tears’ supply. She was wrong. “Why would you do that? Why not just take the Wolfsbane Potion?”

He looked at her. It was not a meaningful look, albeit somewhat sad – it was merely a look as he waited for her brilliant mind to answer her own question.

“Snape,” said Hermione looking up to his eyes, her pinched expression dissolving, “Professor Snape made you the potion, but not since… not since Professor Dumbledore’s death?”

Remus couldn’t help his smile. She was not only the brightest witch of her age, but there was beauty to be found in her logical thinking.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“There were more important things at stake, Hermione.”

“And now? You went to Australia to rescue me, but you won’t tell us about the wolfsbane–why? Not to inconvenience us? Not to disturb us?”

“Hermione—”

“Is that why you wouldn’t come live at Grimmauld Place? So we wouldn’t know?”

And sometimes there was fear to be felt regarding that same logical thinking. Her deduction made for a partial truth, but he couldn’t admit it – not with their bond being the main reason, “No, I… I had personal reasons not to.”

 “Oh,” she looked away, her chin dipped down.

Remus was seized by a coughing fit, reminding Hermione that the poison was still in his system. She pulled the cork again, this time using her blouse for friction, and it yielded with a pop. She held out the vial. “I’m not leaving until you take it.”

“Hermione,” he began, his voice hoarse and his breathing shallow as he tried to overcome the fit, “The…wolf—”

“I’ll ward the place. I’ll set a perimeter and the wolf won’t be able to go past it, I promise.”

Remus chanced a look through the window – the moon would show in less than an hour. It was not the time to test a stubborn witch’s limits. He assented, his fingers touching hers ever-so-briefly as he took the vial from her hand and gulped its contents down.

Hermione rose to her feet, flashed a self-satisfied smile and walked out of the front door. There was not another cottage for miles if any, all she was met with was the small clearing around his house and a tall, lush pine forest.

Once the spells were in place, Hermione apparated just outside Grimmauld Place, drew in a breath, and straightened her body – she had a potion to learn, and friends to tell about her parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter, this one with nothing but Remus and Hermione :)  
> I hope you all enjoy!  
> Thanks to everyone who left me kudos, and to LilianPortia and Melissa for the comments!


	18. Chapter 18

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Abrasive – that's what Ronald Bilius Weasley thought of her ever since they met seven years earlier. He didn't know the word, of course, not then and perhaps not now, but she did. In his –and other's – words, she was a nosy, nagging, and bossy know-it-all, with a penchant for perfectionism.

Her need for a modicum of control – over herself, her emotions and weaknesses, and over that eccentric, challenging world she was accepted into – would almost always translate into over-achievement laced with haughtiness. And as masks go, hers had performed brilliantly the task of hiding her insecurities, yet failed, even now, its first and deepest goal – that of having friends capable of seeing through it. In spite of her logical mind, that conclusion manifested itself not entirely in a conscious level, but rather as if her heart shrank somehow when Ron shook his head, his eyes squinted and his lips parted, and spat, "I can't believe you didn't tell us."

"I didn't mean to keep it from you—" Hermione managed, the measured, detached and almost didactic voice she had used to explain her parents' situation to him, Harry, and Ginny failing her. She had steeled herself and relayed the news as if she had made peace with it long ago as if she no longer saw her parents sitting on the couch while she robbed them a part of their essence whenever she closed her eyes. As if her dreams were no longer haunted by her image dissolving into nothingness on the family portrait above the fireplace, like irrelevant memory fragments slipping away into oblivion.

"But you told _Remus_ sodding _Lupin_!" he countered and his nostrils flared with a snort, "You two barely spoke before and now he's the one you tell things to."

"Ron..." Harry started, but he had either intended it as a warning or hadn't thought anything past it for nothing else followed. Whichever way, Ron disregarded him.

"You're not telling us anything anymore," he said, and his voice lost its accusatory tone, giving way to an even worst sorrow, one that unlike her he could never have concealed, "We've hardly spoken after the battle. And there are things we should discuss."

Hermione's mind raced, wishing she could dissolve the crease in her friend's brow and make his green eyes less vulnerable – she was clearly missing something, a correct answer of sorts to an implicit question she didn't quite understand. He couldn't mean her parents, not after she had stated nothing could be done about them before any of them could ask. She wondered if it had anything to do with Remus – had Harry told Ron something about the two of them? Was he mad she didn't say anything to him? She looked up, ready to ask whatever did he mean but was met by Ginny's pointed look – it was something she _should_ know about.

If she had a few more seconds, if someone were to interrupt them – but no one did and her blank look must've shown, because Ron's wounded stance turned cold and aggressive once again, "You don't remember, do you? That's bloody marvelous, Hermione. Here I am, waiting for you to say something for the past month, and you don't even remember that we've kissed!"

Oh, God.

She felt her lips parting, but no sound came out. They _had_ kissed. Not a chaste kiss, nor a friendly kiss, but one born in the heat of battle, fueled by the sort of desperation that was inherent to survival. One she had conveniently buried along with the chamber of secrets.

But a kiss Ron had carried with him since them while she… what? Unconsciously avoided talking to him? When was the last time they had had a proper conversation? She had turned to Harry more than once for the past month, but she couldn't even remember whether or not she had asked him about Fred. How hard was it for him still the loss of his brother? Between saving Remus and grieving for her own family, she had been there for the Weasley family, yet not there for her best friend. Whom else had she failed?

"Sorry, he was bottling this up for a while." Ginny's voice and departure forced her focus back into that room – Sirius' room. He certainly wouldn't forget anyone he had kissed.

"So… you kissed?" Harry asked. Hermione lowered her gaze and answered him with a short nod, "And you forgot?"

She felt her face scrunch up and a set of the tears she had locked inside at the beginning of their conversation rolled down her face.

"That's a bit problematic," Harry said, and Hermione couldn't contain the half laughter that escaped her lips at his assessment of the situation. "Not enough reason for you to cry, though."

"Harry's right, you know," Hermione and Harry both started at George's voice. The redhead was standing just outside the door, "Don't mind Ron, we did try to teach him some manners, he just seems incapable of learning them. I'm sorry about your family, Hermione."

"Thank you, George."

"The Order is at the Burrow. They sent me here to get you."

"I'll have to tell them, won't I?" Hermione asked under her breath without expecting an answer. Turned out she wouldn't have to – she arrived at the Burrow and was immediately pulled into Mrs. Weasley's arms. The woman's face was wet and strands of her flaming hair stuck to her cheeks as she tightened her grip around Hermione. The Burrow's kitchen was dead silent, yet all the familiar faces – Remus excluded – were there. Ron sat on the bottom of the stairs, his hands stuffed in his pockets and Ginny at his side. The younger Weasley gave Hermione an apologetic look, and while Ron wouldn't hold her gaze, she caught his darting glances in her direction. The hurt was still there, along with fresh guilt, but Hermione found no spite in his expression. She found later by Ginny that Mrs. Weasley had popped into Grimmauld Place's kitchen to see what was taking them so long and overheard Ginny as she reasoned with Ron.

The Order members took turns in offering her their sympathies once Mrs. Weasley finally let go of her, and Hermione was Mollycoddled for the rest of the evening, which only made Ron sulk and climb – with no less than a tray filled with chocolate cake – his way into his old room. Hermione's chest felt heavy watching him go, yet a venomous voice inside that sounded much like Rita Skeeter congratulated her on her luck. _After all, had he preferred to talk right there and then what would she say? 'The thing is that I fell for someone while you mourned your brother' hardly seemed like an apology_. A sick feeling sank into her stomach, as her mind, in lieu of Skeeter herself, added, ' _Isn't that right, devious Miss Granger?_ '

Just as they were about to leave to Grimmauld Place, however, Kingsley pulled her aside.

"I've been hoping to talk to you… would you join me for lunch, say, this Friday?" His booming voice was pleasant and his smile wicked – both assets he certainly knew how to use – but his face betrayed nothing, "There's something I'd like to ask."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, "About?"

He chuckled and Hermione couldn't tell whether it was her distrust or the request itself that amused him so, "Order business."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's the new (and so very late) chapter! My old computer broke (read: I dropped it from a considerable height and the crash left no survivors) so I lost a lot of stuff because I've been too lazy to back up my data since… December. So word of advice: back up yours NOW.  
> That being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> A huge thank you (and lots of chocolates...just because) to everyone who left me kudos, to lanibb2013, LilianPortia, Ruby_Moon, achuislemochroi, Tiffany, and PristelBritches for the comments, and to Ruby_Moon, curlilox, PicoBogue, Lady_Alexiel, allicat911, SarahJaneSnape, theresidentidiot for bookmarking the story! 
> 
> Thank you all :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

The Daily Prophet read "Umbridge advocates severe punishment to…" but Hermione cut her reading short as she wrapped her family china with the newspaper, causing the crumpled amphibious face of the former Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission to contort in outrage as it lay underneath a Muggle soup bowl.

It was, in a sense, a cathartic experience. And Harry had made sure to buy extra copies.

The trip to her parents' house had been his idea. Between worrying about Remus, who was undergoing his transformation, and mulling over the unresolved situation with Ron, who had chosen to sulk at the Burrow, Hermione's sleep never came and the tossing in bed grew into an overwhelming need to vent her distress. That's when the pacing started. But the old house did creak, and the only two other inhabitants of Number 12 Grimmauld Place – at least until the welcoming party the following day – descended the stairs and banged on Hermione's door.

Hermione started at the sound and her gaze strayed from the floor pattern of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's old headquarters room to the window. Dawn had already sneaked its way into the sky and she had missed it, despite the eerie, preternatural feel of utter silence coupled with nothing more than a gleam of light that betrayed its arrival. Muffled calls followed given her lack of response, and Hermione hurried to the door.

Just outside the doorframe, and leaning against it, stood Ginny, with Harry at her left side. The girl's hair stuck up in the back of her head and a pang of guilt coursed through Hermione at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes. Harry, on the other hand, looked less disheveled, a normalcy reserved only to those whose hair was naturally messy, yet something about him had seemed off.

" _I'm sorry," Hermione had said with a grimace._

_Ginny shook her head sideways with a slur, "Y'okay?"_

" _Yes. No. I will be," Hermione stopped and let out a breath, "I'm sorry, I just can't sleep."_

" _Then let's not," Harry offered, and when Ginny glared at him through already heavy eyelids he added, "Just the two of us, I mean."_

" _No, Harry, thank you. You should get some sleep."_

" _It's fine, let's talk. Or why don't we go over to your house? We can pack, box and tag absolutely everything if you want," he suggested, sounding almost…ecstatic. The alacrity in his voice was not unlike the one from the time he had gulped half a vial of Felix Felicis, "We'll get you busy for the day and then afterward you can drink your sorrows—ouch!" Ginny interrupted him with a pinch, "What? It's a party!"_

_The redhead looked too tired to form a coherent retort. Instead, she sighed an unintelligible word before she stepped around Hermione, shuffled her way to the bed and sprawled herself on top of the covers._

_Hermione stepped out of the room, pulling the door behind her, "Harry, are… are you alright?"_

" _Yes. Yes, everything's fine. We're all going to live together, that's all."_

_Hermione twisted her hands together, "We've been doing that for some time now, sort of."_

" _But this is different, you know?" he said and surveyed the corridor, "This is home. It's not a refuge anymore, not a vacation from life with the Dursley's or a hiding place from Voldemort. It's just home."_

Hermione hadn't quite known what to say. The smile she offered Harry felt wobbly even to her, so she pulled him close and embraced him. She understood him then, on a basic, raw level where that somewhat nonsensical feeling of being homeless yet not technically houseless was anything but trivial. And the void it represented could at times swallow you whole.

In the end, she agreed to his suggestion. That was, after all, a day for fresh starts – for some more than for others.

Hermione had steered clear from her parent's living room nonetheless but ventured for second inside their bedroom. Nothing had remained there; still the emptiness was less nauseating than the image of the back of that brown couch. Just as Harry promised, though, all the cataloging, organizing, and packing had kept her busy for the day.

They had finished going through the kitchen and the spare room, and Harry had fetched some of the things from the living room before they went back to Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

The entrance hall was filled with all sorts of plants, signifying Neville's arrival. But the only person there was Luna, wearing a dark-blue blouse, ochre pants and a green root around her brown boot. Oddly enough, the root was not one of her peculiar accessories.

"Luna, don't move. I believe there's a shrivelfig climbing you," Hermione said, with the same tone one would use to warn about a spider, and then lowered the box in her arms to reach for her wand. Despite its lack of poisonous proprieties, shrivelfigs were known for their aggressive roots, and that particular one seemed dissatisfied with her current vase.

Harry had mimic her and they already had their hands around their wands when Luna answered, "It's okay, she likes me."

" _She_?" Hermione cried.

"I think she hasn't been named yet. There's no need for wands."

Harry cleared his throat, his gaze shifting between the plant and the witch, "Luna, do you think she would… mind if you came up with a name later? I think everyone is already here."

"Oh, it's time for the party!" Luna beamed. Hermione didn't think Luna's eyes could open any wider, yet they seemed to have done so for a second, just before she crouched next to the plant, "I'll have to go now."

Slowly, almost hesitantly, the shrivelfig root disentangled itself from Luna's leg and shrank back into the vase.

"That's—" Hermione whispered.

"It's Luna," Harry whispered back.

They were to gather in the drawing room, yet the pillow fight started long before it. Ginny initiated it by catching an off-guard and a rather self-conscious Neville, as she invaded his room before he had a chance to slip into his pajamas shirt. Luna had covered for Hermione as she escaped Harry's blow, and they all ran once Neville showed up to settle the score. It was Hermione the first to break the rules, though – she flicked her wand and not only doubled their arsenal but set a pillow storm against the outnumbered boys' team.

Neville whacked Luna as she made her way to the drawing room, a stroke Ginny avenged. She jumped from the third step and threw the pillow mid-air like she would throw a quaffle, hitting her intended target as she made a soft landing on a pillowed couch in the first-floor hallway.

Once the war came to an end with no victors and plenty of floating feathers, they moved on to dinner. Snacks, muggle or otherwise, were served in their own packages, accompanied by pumpkin juice as they sat atop a sea of pillows and settled house arrangements.

Given the fact that no one, except for Buckbeak, had ever wanted to set foot, let alone sleep, in the same room once occupied by Walburga and Orion Black, her _second-cousin-slash-husband_ , the master bedroom became a storage of sorts as the attic was to be converted into a greenhouse.

Ron would remain on the second floor, in the same bedroom he and Harry had shared before. Neville took Hermione and Ginny's old room on the first floor, whereas Hermione and Luna would both be on the third floor – Hermione where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had stayed, and Luna in Fred and George's room, leaving the middle one as a spare.

As for Ginny, her official bedroom was Regulus' and nothing else was to be said about that.

Hermione sat straight and put on a mock-Prefect tone. "Now that we've settled things, we should make a toast."

Ginny summoned a bottle of Firewhisky and they filled their glasses, spilling some over the pillows. To Hermione's surprise, Luna raised her glass first. She studied the amber liquid against the light for a moment before returning her gaze to them, "To friends."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the new chapter!   
> I'm not satisfied with it, but I added, cut, and rewrote it way too many times and it was time to move forward. Let me know your thoughts!  
> A huge thank you to everyone who left kudos, to JennyLynn and Winter_Orion for the comments and for bookmarking, and to elisa2000 for bookmarking as well. :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

Hermione's recollection of her first time getting sloshed was not at all a bad one.

Yes, the first sip of Firewhisky had murdered her taste buds, scorched her throat and made her wonder whether or not drinking was a good plan. By the second glass, however, such concerns had abated as she played the part of backing singer, shouting the chorus to Ginny's off-key performance of the Weird Sisters' new song. And, after Ginny had dared them to a game of Straight Face, whatever worries her mind had entertained had waned away along with her capacity of retaining details.

Yet came the moment when the laughter died, as if its presence was rather an indicator of hysteria than of merriment, and the silence converted Grimmauld Place into a hostile house once again.

Ginny had turned to Harry, Neville to Luna, and, given the choice, Hermione turned to her least protected friend. The one who would tend his own wounds yet was always there to tend to others'. She was well acquainted with that class of strength – one engendered not out of bravery or vanity but for other people's benefit – for their peace of mind, a means to assuage their fears. A cultivated strength, useless to its owner for, try as he may, it's a hoax to which he's unsusceptible. Its walls are like solid armor, bathed in kindness to outsiders whilst the thorns of censure and burden point inward.

No one questioned her as she left. She steadied herself against the walls and doorways, taking studious and diminutive steps to overcome her drunken ineptitude. The stairs felt far more treacherous than the changeable staircases at Hogwarts as she felt her way down to the poorly illuminated kitchen. Once arrived, it took her a few missteps and stumbles to reach the remedies' cabinet. It was with care that she searched it, disregarding the Order's large reserve of Dittany, until she located a small green bottle tagged, in black, overly large letters, 'Sober up Potion'.

Instant tears sprung from her eyes as she downed its contents, followed by a crushing sensation that assailed her skull as if intent on making her brain implode. Unlike the Pepperup, steam didn't come out of her ears. Still the silence became as loud as the whizzing left by the common-cold cure and the kitchen lights harmed her eyes as if they shone as bright as the sun itself. Hermione doubled over, massaging her temples as best as she could and promising Merlin, God, or whoever was out there that she would never drink again provided that the pain stopped. And as she lowered herself to the ground, planning to curl into a ball and wishing the pain gone for as little as two, perhaps three full seconds, it did stop.

A second passed. Two. Three. She swallowed as her bargained time came to an end and chanced a look at the little green bottle. Its tag now read "You're sober!" in the same overly large letters. It was, apparently, the end of her condensed hangover.

Hermione rose to her feet, her balance flawless and her senses keen, and seized some of the Dittany as a precaution. On her way out, she grabbed her wrap coat, threw it over her owl pajamas and disapparated.

* * *

 

Remus hadn't eaten a thing all day. It was unlike the wolf not to feed but, then again, so was its need to get inside the house. It was not one of its unfounded, animal-like behaviors – not to Remus, not this time. For when he regained consciousness his fingertips were raw from clawing at the floorboards, his back and shoulders stung with cuts caused either by the broken center table or the smashed window – perhaps even both – and still none of it mattered for he woke up surrounded by her, wrapped up inside her robe-turned-blanket.

It was the wolf's most prized possession, he reckoned, the one item in which his scent and hers mingled. And Remus might as well admit it, if only to himself, that Hermione had somehow become the single point of convergence between man and wolf.

He hadn't bothered to eat either – the aconite-poisoning had taken its toll on Remus' body despite the antidote Hermione had him take. All he had accomplished to do that day was drag himself up the couch taking the blanket with him, and sink once again into unconsciousness.

Neither the scent of food nor the smell of danger would prompt him into awareness at that point, but hers did. Her fragrance wafted across the room, holding his senses captive. Exhaustion was no match, yet Hermione remained beautifully oblivious of her own hold over him. Right then and there, Remus was just another wolf battling Moony for her attention. The latter desired to flaunt himself at her in naked and feral glory. Yet, the former… the former longed to let his wounds show – a display of weakness and trust meant to only be seen by his mate.

In the end, victory was determined not by the strongest wolf, but rather by Hermione herself. It was her concerned look – her wrinkled brows and sudden intake of air at the sight of him – that made Remus sit up and remain that way, as the blanket lay covering his lower body.

* * *

 

Whatever Hermione expected, the scene presented to her was not it. Moonlight from a not-quite-as-full moon reflected itself from large shards of glass by the window but, more so, from the viscous liquid underneath them. It was not until she followed its trail to a better lit corner that paws and footprints betrayed its reddish-brown pigmentation – Remus' blood. A pool of Remus' blood. The table she had rested her cup of tea the day before lay broken in halves and the mug Hermione supposed had at some point rested on top of it was now shattered on the ground beside it.

And Remus… her breath hitched once she saw him, so smeared with his own blood that it took Hermione a full minute to notice his lack of clothes. Even once it came to her attention, his nakedness wasn't something she could focus on, as her eyes lingered on the open gashes climbing up his shoulders, the end of which escaped her limited sight. Others would certainly show, once she managed to clean the dry blood he was bathed in.

There weren't words. No sweet reassurances or panicked interjections. There was, however, an unspoken agreement, allowed by the dreamlike quality of the late hour, that that particular encounter would remain thus – unspoken of, and perchance nothing more than a figment of their imagination.

It didn't advance their relationship in any way, yet there was a sense of intimacy instilled in every action – in the way Remus' body would tense under her touch and Hermione's breath would catch under the gaze of those gold-rimmed eyes.

Once his wounds were addressed, Remus caressed Hermione's hand and brushed his lips against her forehead. But then, lying in her own bed half-asleep hours later, she couldn't tell for sure whether or not she had dreamt that part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go! I hope you all enjoy Remus' nakedness (sorry about all the blood, though).
> 
> Huge thanks to everyone who left me kudos, to LilianPortia, JennyLynn, and irish_angel for the comments and to Ruthw76 for bookmarking! :)


	21. Chapter 21

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

The Witches Weekly Digest would teach a girl all there was to know about fashion, etiquette, and handy spells to style her hair bewitchingly. Every now and again, it would feature an all-exclusive guide on spellbinding and stunning –figuratively, of course!– your typical Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor wizards. What the magazine didn't cover, however, was how one dressed for and behaved at a one-on-one Order meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Not that Hermione read such thing to begin with, but, staring at herself in the mirror, she wouldn't have minded a bit of help. Especially after his letter arrived - elegant, slant-free handwriting on a rich red parchment paper, carefully folded and wrapped, and delivered by a harpy eagle, of all animals – informing her of their meeting place. Hermione just wished it had informed her of the subject of their discussion as well. She assessed her wardrobe and sighed – _and happened to include a dress code of sorts._

She had known the place – a Muggle historic bistro on the outskirts of London she had once visited with her school on a trip to Winchester. She had been nothing but a child then, yet past the heavy, rugged wooden doors, the antiques preserved at The Chesil Rectory had played with her imagination much more than her already practical, nine-year-old mind had liked to admit. She had been standing in a Middle Ages' merchant's house, later gifted by Henri VIII to his daughter, Queen Mary. Centuries later, the building still stood, housing several period pieces and hosting a small young girl with wild brown hair that, later that day, would ask her parents for books on old conventions of an England she had yet to know. There was a touch of magic in History, she had thought, and it was perhaps that single concession to fantasy that made Hermione so accepting of the Magical World two years later.

Although the man couldn't possibly have had known that particular piece of her past, a part of her knew Shacklebolt would take any chance to fluster her, if only for his personal amusement. And if she were to dwell on her nine-year-old self, he would most certainly succeed. That knowledge alone sufficed to have her emptying her wardrobe on top of her bed, in an almost fruitless pursuit of a combative –bordering on belligerent– garment that could somehow set them on equal grounds while also deeming her fit to be informed and trusted with what could be an important Order matter.

Hermione settled after many tries for a sleeveless, olive-colored a-line dress, tan heeled sandals and a matching clutch. Her outfit alone added months to her age, and, once she applied a light makeup and pulled her hair back in a chignon, she could pass for a stern twenty-one. Well, _as_ stern as a twenty-one-year-old girl could look, but, given the circumstances, she would take whatever leverage she could get.

Feeling a boost of confidence from her sober, steadfast appearance, the witch judged glamours unnecessary – they were, after all, headed for the Muggle world, where she remained nothing more than an inconspicuous young woman. Apart from the fact that the wizard she was meeting had a rather noteworthy predilection for purple, that is.

Hermione apparated behind the bushes and trees that adorned the corner between the bistro on Chesil Street and an office with a "Just Rented" sign, on Bridge, and headed for the restaurant. Nothing about the house had changed since she first visited it – she admired the contrast between the upper timber-framed facade against the recoiled tiled ground floor, one of the charming oddities of the period's architecture, and climbed down the stairs of the entrance portal. Her fingers lingered on the linear cracks of the wood as she pushed past the heavy door and her feet drifted towards the two open cupboards at the corner on their accord. Just as she remembered, the cupboards' wood was as dark as the beams that timber-framed the white walls, yet the former had intricate leaf and square patterns carved into it rather than the rugged, unpolished feel of the latter. Hermione reveled in the warmth provided by the fireplace across the room as she studied the antique collection of the Late Middle Ages and Renaissance that the fifteenth-century building had quartered over time.

"Miss?" called a honeyed voice from behind her, and Hermione shifted to include a gray-haired waiter in her vision field, "May I help you?"

"Oh, I came to meet…a friend."

"Would you be so kind as to follow me?" the man asked and then smiled, "I believe I know who you mean."

Hermione mimicked his expression with a close-lipped smile that felt strained, at best. It was neither that simple sentence nor his amused smile by themselves that made her mouth go dry. Coupled together, however, they were cause for distress. Far, _far_ worse than Kingsley's all-purple robe –which she could always attribute to a cultural trend– the wizard would have no way to tell inappropriate, mismatched, and ludicrous Muggle clothing from 'regular' ones, as the episode of the camisole-wearing wizard at the Quidditch World Cup could confirm.

Young couples and an occasional family filled the restaurant at that hour and she trailed after the attendant as he took her through the semi-open rooms of the old house-turned-restaurant, the faint scents of food and yogurt sherbet unable to lessen her anxiety. Years of coming up with plausible excuses for the most implausible situations didn't prevent Hermione from halting as the waiter walked inside a more private room. Like with a horror movie, the fear of looking almost surpassed a rather unhealthy curiosity. _Almost_ being the key word.

The purple was there, just not as Hermione had pictured. Kingsley stood from his seat, grabbing the lapels of his black, tailored jacket suit, layered over a dark purple shirt with the first button undone, denoting a grasp on fashion and the social graces of Muggles unmatched by any other wizard she knew, Harry included. Despite being raised by Muggles, her friend could never be called stylish, whereas the Head Auror of England's Ministry of Magic was a tie away from making the GQ cover.

"Hermione, it's very nice to see you."

Her lips parted, but her brain was relapse in answering in kind. A strangled 'How?' almost bubbled out of her mouth, but, even in her amazement, her mind deemed it rude, if not somewhat prejudiced. At her lack of response, the waiter pulled her a chair and she managed a small 'hi' at his cue. A pathetic 'hem' returned her traitorous voice, and the witch straightened herself in her chair, her hands folded on her thighs, and made a point to look into the Auror's eyes, "What did you want to discuss?"

"It wouldn't hurt to order first, would it? I do believe we'll need to eat at some point," Kingsley motioned for the menu, "I took the liberty of already asking Hugh for a bottle of wine."

The gray-haired waiter beamed at her, "A most fine Abboccato, miss. Mr. Shacklebolt has quite the taste."

The man's— _Hugh_ 's earlier smile was brought into context as he punctuated his subtle observation with a not so subtle wink. For whatever reason, he seemed to be under the impression that Hermione and Kingsley were, in fact, on a date. And, based on the Auror's schooled expression, Hermione had strong suspicions concerning the origin of that misinformation.

"Right," Hermione snorted, and either her unladylike manner or her clear lack of interest in Kingsley's taste disconcerted Hugh, as he shot an apprehensive look towards her 'date'. Hermione settled for a random item on the menu, her gaze following the chagrined waiter as he slipped out of the room, shaking his head sideways. The undisguised curiosity of another attendant –a much younger one, with dark brown hair and penetrating eyes– reminded Hermione she had yet to set any barrier spells. He held her gaze, rooted to the spot where he had been attending other clients in the adjoining room, up to the point when she reached inside her clutch, got hold of her wand under the washcloth and cast a Confundus Charm in his direction. His expression seemed off, though - a bit too… disappointed for someone confounded, and Hermione cast a Notice-Me-Not as well, for good measure.

Her companion didn't seem overly concerned - his expression was rather alike that of her teachers, Professor Snape being the notable exception, whenever she performed magic above her level. Despite the strangeness of the test, Hermione couldn't help but take pleasure from passing it.

"I hope you don't mind me saying," Kingsley's deep voice brought her attention back, "You look quite beautiful."

And the charming son of a witch struck…again.

"Hm, thanks. You're…" 'dashing' would be the appropriate response. But Hermione's lip twitched and she finished quite differently, "Unsettling."

Pettiness couldn't always be bad, after all.

"You wound me," he countered with a hint of a smile. "You're quite the witch, Hermione, but I must confess my interest in you is of a different nature…for now. I've been wondering about your plans for the future, have you decided on anything yet?"

"I can't say that I have, there are so many fascinating options…"

"And if the Ministry is reinstated … how would you feel about a political position?"

Politics…that hardly made for small talk, "In what way my career choice is related to the Order?"

"I may have misled you about the true reason for this meeting. This is a professional matter, the Order is in no way involved."

"You didn't 'mislead' me then, you lied. What for?" Hermione spat. She was well acquainted with that pattern - the exchange of pleasantries, the delightful meal meant only for a select crowd, all the while concealing second intentions…It bore a striking resemblance to the despicable, elitist Slug Club. All that was missing was Kingsley's goal, "You inquired about my political ambitions…Are you offering me a job?"

"I may be."

"You wish to run for Minister."

"I cannot deny that."

"And Umbridge? The Order—"

"The wizard's council is to be dissolved in two months. The Order of the Phoenix will soon be disbanded, its members have lives greater than the organization," Kingsley claimed, "I'm aware that wasn't the case for you, but it's time to move forward, Hermione. Someone with a keen perception as yourself would be a valuable addition."

"You said the Order is not related to it. Officially or at all?" Hermione inquired, her eyes narrowed, "Are they even aware?"

Kingsley never replied. He sipped his wine and stood. "Give the idea some thought. You might find yourself changing your mind."

The food arrived later. Hugh conveyed Mr. Shaklebolt's apology on his sudden departure, accompanied by his wish for her to order whatever she fancied. Their secret meeting didn't sit well with her, and neither did the food, left untouched on her plate as if the Royal Frittata was in itself a compliance.

It was madness. The discrepancies between what she knew and what she learned about him that afternoon were more than a little worrying. The man had Ravenclaw's wits, Slytherin's deceptiveness, and the charm of a Gryffindor. The matter at hand was whether or not his traits still included a shred of Hufflepuffian loyalty. And she knew exactly who could answer that.

Back at Grimmauld Place, Hermione borrowed Luna's owl and scribbled a note to Remus, "How well do you trust Kingsley?"

The reply –a sentence-long note just as her question– read, "Why do you ask?"

It didn't bode well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time getting Kingsley to cooperate for this, but it's finished! Not what you expected, I bet, but I hope you enjoyed! ;)  
> Huge thanks to everyone who left kudos, to Winter_Orion and JennyLynn for the comments, and to FranKit88 for bookmarking!


	22. Chapter 22

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 

"What did you say to her?" he asked in a low voice. It was not an easy task to remain still, staring outside a window at a view he could not discern, while his muscles strained against his skin and his ears pounded to the pulsing of his blood.

There had been no sound or movement to indicate the intruder's presence, other than the smell of him – the expensive bergamot cologne mixed with the scent of skin that was particular to every being.

A combination he was quite familiar with.

"I assumed she would turn to you," the man's smirk was deeply embedded in his voice, a blend of amusement and conceitedness that would've earned him a place amongst the Marauders had they studied together, "To Harry first, but I guess she does hold you in higher account than I had imagined."

"Kingsley," Remus growled through clenched teeth. It was not an easy task to remain still, but Remus did so, on the odd chance looking at his aggravating friend would be the straw that made him throttle the wizard.

The werewolf had been happy, thrilled even, to receive Hermione's letter. Up until the moment he read its content,

_How well do you trust Kingsley?_

Utterly, completely. With his very life. But not with his mate.

The man knew too many of his secrets and had far too meddlesome inclinations to ever be trusted with her. And if Hermione had felt the need to question him about it, then perhaps there was good reason not to.

He had written her in return, an inquisitive and not at all reassuring note, and sent the owl on its way before his mind spiraled down with conjectures and both the fear and the urgency to learn what she knew. Anguish crawled inside his chest – despite his attempts to steel himself from what would be certain and perfectly justified rejection, he couldn't possibly survive her hatred. It was unreasonable to expect otherwise, yet if he was ever entitled a small grace, let that be never having to live with Hermione's revulsion.

He had posted himself by that window, the same he had broken during the full moon, as a penance of sorts. And though Hermione's answer never came, Kingsley did.

"What did you say to her?"

"I could say that I told her the truth about you. Guess I'm too fond of my bits and pieces to do so, my friend," he said with humor, wondering around the room with ease, "I asked her on a date."

A tremor ran through his arm. His face contorted as a guttural roar threatened to come up his throat. But something else broke the silence.

"It is _not_ the time for teasing, Mr. Shacklebolt," McGonagall chided, "You should know better."

Remus had missed the witch's scent and presence entirely, and the surprise, coupled with years of her disapproving voice and severe scrutiny from his years as a student, sufficed to disrupt his rage. It helped, also, that her disappointment had been aimed at Kingsley.

"Minerva, you're late," Kingsley remarked, under the guise of nonchalance he most certainly did not feel.

"I am aware, thank you," she retorted with her eyes widened, and the slightest hint of guilt flashed in the Auror's face, "Now that we have established that and that you did no such thing as ask Hermione on a date, Remus, I trust you are well?"

"Yes, yes, I am."

"Very well, then," she said, taking a seat at Remus' belated offer. A courtesy he did not extend to Kingsley, "I thought it best to keep the news until Hermione was safe and the full moon had passed, but there's no reason for postponing it any longer. The Order met on the night Hermione returned. There were pressing matters to discuss."

It was Kings who addressed the issue, "Umbridge intends to petition the Wizard's Council for the position of Minister of Magic."

Something fouler than Wolfsbane Potion seemed to settle in his stomach, "She can't."

"And yet, she shall," Minerva sighed. For the first time since she arrived, Remus spotted the new wrinkles framing her weary green eyes, "Her… _popularity_ has grown considerably since she started advocating strict punishments to Death Eaters—"

"—and werewolves," Remus finished, "And our plan? To prevent her?"

Kingsley stood straighter, unsmiling, "I will run for Minister as well."

"We stand a better chance with Harry—" Remus started.

"The children are not to be implicated," Minerva cut in, "Not directly."

" _Not directly_? As if they would stand by and tolerate—"Remus fell silent. He could feel his eyebrows drawing together as he reached into his pocket and took Hermione's letter out, "They don't know, do they? Is that what this is about?"

Kingsley finally answered his initial question, "I offered her a ministerial position."

"Oh, what a fantastic job, Kingsley!" Remus countered with a strained voice, "Truly! Apart from the fact that you got her to question your loyalties."

"I may have overdone it," Kingsley pulled at his robe's collar as if it had started to bother him, "The girl is too wary for her own sake and our piece of mind."

Minerva cocked an eyebrow, "The girl is too smart for you, you mean."

Under different circumstances, a mischievous banter between Minerva and whatever poor soul had dared cross her would have diverted Remus. It wasn't the case with Hermione. Remus ran a hand through his hair and fixed Minerva with a stare, "I need to tell her."

"You cannot tell her, Remus."

"She'll learn about it. It won't be long before it makes the news. If you had told her—If Kingsley had—"

"She would've accepted, despite her aspirations," the witch stated and her skin acquired an ashen shade, "They all would, that's precisely why we mustn't."

"And when the Daily Prophet publishes it? Will she have to learn about the possibility in that manner? Not just Hermione, this affects all of them."

"Hopefully we'll know their answers before. They are still students, Remus – seventh-years. They fought a war at what ought to be the tenderest age, and once again we're trying to rush them. We owe it to them for their future to be theirs. It's our duty to try."

"It feels wrong," Remus insisted, but his voice seemed weak even to himself, "They should know, they are part of the Order…"

"They are. But also they are the most willing to sacrifice, the three of them in particular. They have been asked to, continuously, and at all times they have proved themselves," her eyebrows gathered in a pained expression, "We will not make the same mistakes as Albus. We're not required to."

"And if they choose differently? If Umbridge gets away with it because we wouldn't involve them? They would never forgive us."

Minerva's stare turned cold, "Then we simply cannot let her."

Hours later, Kingsley's parting words kept sounding in Remus' mind.

" _You're not her only protector, you know"_ he had said, _"If you truly believe she's entitled to an informed decision, tell her about the bond. Otherwise, it's just hypocritical of you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the new chapter!
> 
> A lot of people were concerned that I would make Kingsley a downright evil – or at least a quite unprincipled – character, so I changed the outline a bit and placed this chapter a little early so you wouldn't suffer much. Well, no more than necessary, anyway. I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Huge thanks to everyone who left kudos, to JennyLynn, LilianPortia, and Winter_Orion for the comments, and to Poetgirl616 for bookmarking the story!


	23. Chapter 23

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

The tip of her quill hovered over the parchment, the house around her silent in a stark contrast to her mind. Conveying her suspicions about Kingsley – in a plausible manner – had proved itself…challenging. Her unease made for a feeble argument. Had it been Harry to come forth accusing the Auror based on a job offer, a few unanswered questions, and the man's ability to wear his smile as a weapon, Hermione would have laughed. As it was, however, disquiet grew the more she dwelled upon their meeting, a whirling mass knotting itself at the bottom of her empty stomach. And yet the girl who could write a 30 inches paper on the inception of wands in Ancient Greece off the top of her head while also listing and comparing the existing bibliographical references gnawed on the end of the sugar quill rather than writing a paragraph-long calling an Order member a traitor. She had done it before – they all had – and the most unsavory lesson in humility had lacked snarls and silkily voiced insults. It had been permeated by Professor Snape's tears.

The blackened tip had yet to touch the paper when her bedroom door swung open and slammed against the wall, making her heart jump inside her chest as a hurricane of long red hair stormed inside, "Hermione, you're _late_!"

"Ginny!" She exhaled air she didn't know she had drawn in – these surges of adrenaline, both war and Weasley-induced, would certainly take a toll on her life expectancy, "For what?"

"Hogwarts' duty. We've been assigned," and without taking a breath she continued, "I'll explain there, Madam Pince is _fuming_."

And then both the quill and the parchment had lain forgotten, the former dropped haphazardly over the latter as Ginny grabbed Hermione's wrist and apparated them away.

Hermione steadied her feet on the hardwood floors, watching as books floated upwards in a reverse flowed rain. Concrete dust tinged the air, masking the scent of old books as a few scattered people worked on walls, windows, and bookcases, their wandwork constant as they disregarded the purple coloring of Madam Pince's face. She seethed at their carelessness, perched at the top of the spiral stairs, screeching commands they were likely to ignore. Commands the two girls set out to follow, as her gaze narrowed in on them.

Either out of breathlessness or the inability to find fault in their work, the screaming stopped. It was not long before her reprimands echoed from a different library floor and it was only then that Hermione had dared to look at the youngest Weasley for an explanation.

Ginny's lips tugged with what should've passed for a reassuring smile, were it not so close to a grimace, "In her defense, someone did let a wall crumble over a stack of books earlier."

Hermione winced. "And we're here because…?"

"We volunteered. Or we were expected to volunteer. Professor McGonagall's letter didn't say much," Ginny smiled as if she recalled something amusing, "We barely had time to read it, anyway."

"And we were assigned here?"

"Just you, the others are outside. I should be working bathrooms, but Myrtle saw Harry and I kiss," the girl shuddered, removing a volume from the bookcase in front of them. The moment her fingers let go of it, the book joined the others in their switched gravity, "We were just moving past the time I threw Riddle's diary across her…"

"That happened years ago!"

Ginny snickered, "She's a ghost, Hermione. Grudges have no expiration date."

Madam Pince's brisk footsteps – under any other circumstances cautious and muffled – grated on their ears as she patrolled their aisle. They turned to their damaged bookcase, their wands flicking in the familiar motions of the Repairing Charm as Hermione's mind dwelled on Myrtle. She would be weeping now, brokenhearted and vindictive, forever trapped as an adolescent emotional wreck. The loneliness…The loneliness of it would be unbearable. It would consume her, like fast-burning fire and death, until her raw being craved for it to end. It would, only to start all over again, and nobody would care about the open wounds and the pain.

 _And the blood_ , she thought, although ghosts didn't bleed.

 _Werewolves_ did.

Her stomach sunk. Open sinks and inundated floors gave way to pools of blood and broken furniture.

And a lost werewolf – willing to poison himself to numb either the wolf or the man or them all. And she had yet to do anything to prevent him.

Hermione pressed her lips together and lowered her wand, tightening her hold on it.

"Ginny, will you cover for me?"

"Sure."

Hermione scanned the room and edged her way around the Library, listening in for any signs of Madam Pince. The dress she had chosen for her lunch with Kingsley was not uncomfortable, although unfit for her current work. Her shoes, on the other hand… The reasonably heeled sandals would clip the wood floors regardless, defeating the purpose of being sneaky, so she balanced herself on the balls of her feet and made her way to the Restricted Section as bits of concrete exploded under her soles threatening to make her slip.

Looks of commiseration followed her as the remaining 'volunteers' likely assumed she would attempt an escape. Hermione stepped over the rope dividing the section from the rest of the Library and bit down a smile. She walked along the lined bookcases, coming to a stop before the Phineas Bourne's _Moste Potente Potions_ volume. She searched her mind for the inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion, her gaze traveling over the titles – Budge's _Book of Potions_ , Jigger's _Potion Opuscule,_ Tugwood's _Beauty in a cauldron_ …

And the name came to her _: Belby_.

Her eyes traveled backward, until they settled once again on Bourne's. Hermione closed her eyes and lowered her forehead against the shelf with a thud – the book to its left started a different segment. Her efforts had been for naught.

It was when she opened her eyes to leave that she spotted it. A blend between a booklet and a journal squeezed between the two tomes, the leather spine so thin, the title of the volume was excluded altogether. A symbol of sorts shone in its place, engraved in faded gold ink at the very bottom. She didn't recognize it at first, the diminutive triangle and the already inkless B enclosed inside of it, but she slid her index finger over the top of the spine and pulled nonetheless.

"Δαμοξλες βελβψ," read the cover.

Which, rather presumptuously for a 1970's – and, by no means, Greek – wizard, meant Damocles Belby.

"What do you think you're doing, Miss Granger?" Madam Pince's voice sounded at her back.

It was possible Hermione had overrated her furtiveness.

She turned to face the witch, feeling rather small despite her heeled shoes. "I-I was hoping I could borrow—"

"Don't THINK I don't know what Mr. Potter and you did. Snatching books from an off-limits Library and stacking them on the _floors_ , for Circe's sake!"

Hermione cringed and lowered her gaze. _Again, how did they manage to win the war?_

"And yet," the witch continued, "every single volume was returned and Mr. Lupin's life was saved, I believe?"

Hermione tipped her chin to one side, her mouth opening, closing, and opening yet again, "Does that mean—"

"It would be careless of me to grant access to a Restricted Section book to a student without a note. However," the librarian drawled and punctuated the word with a tilt of her head, "I couldn't very well control it amidst this mayhem, could I?"

Hermione knew she was staring. She also knew it to be rude. "I don't think you could, Madam Pince."

The older witch nodded, and her dark-brown eyes fixated on Hermione's, "As long as the copies are returned, Ms. Granger. In their _pristine_ condition."

Later that day, Hermione excused herself from meeting the others at the Hog's Head for a well-deserved butter beer. Instead, she apparated outside Vine Grove's cottage, bearing her recent discovery and her earlier disquiet – both credible excuses for seeing Remus. And, if she were to be honest, both exactly that – excuses.

She knocked – once, twice. The curtains on the windows were drawn and no light seeped from inside.

And still, she could have sworn… Nevermind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I hope you like it!  
> Many thanks to everyone who left me kudos, to JennyLynn, LilianPortia and Henker for the comments and Henker, Secret_Seeker, MariaVetis123 and Cleosperson1 for bookmarking the story!  
> I can't thank you guys enough for the support you've given me! This story is nothing without you :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Secrets are a dangerous thing.

They are hardly ever safe, and when found, they grant power – to mock, to manipulate.

To threaten.

Which is why hers were kept close to her heart and always away from her mind.

* * *

 

The bookcases did not fix themselves any faster the following day. Much as anything else in Hogwarts, they seemed to possess a mind of their own, as if regal reluctance to being pieced together by scrawny students would attest to their distinction.

They worked in silence, awake, but only just, battling the splintered, mahogany-colored furniture as sunbeams disrupted the early morning fog outside the windows. Snippets of conversation were saved for later, for both Hermione and Ginny's sakes. For Hermione, it would not do to displease Madam Pince after she so generously overlooked her most recent transgression. For Ginny… well, the girl was hardly a morning person.

Damocles' potion had proven itself… rather absurd. Once all of the other occupants of Number 12, Grimmauld Place apart from the occasional spider had retired the night before, Hermione escaped into the library and sat in her favorite armchair, book and hot chocolate in hand. She sipped her beverage and rested the mug on the floor, the warm sweetness tingling on her tongue as she flipped the journal open by its ribbon marker. It opened to the title page – in Greek, as the cover had been. A small inscription ink bled from the initial blank page, but Hermione disregarded it, sliding her finger through the back of the page as if caressing silk and turning it at the bottom corner.

Such ceremonies didn't last for long.

Several hours later found her cross-legged on the wooden floor encircled by Greek, Ancient Arithmancy, and Advanced Potion books, her cold chocolate forgotten somewhere, and even the magical candles – Thaddeus Bloomberg's Extra-durable Dragon-fired ones – giving out on her. An opinion or two concerning a pedantic Damocles and his abstruse writing might have escaped her and, oddly enough, shooting pains through her legs and back punctuated both occasions. In the end, protesting limbs and tired eyes had earned her little more than a list of ingredients – a less than accurate one, too.

So when her mind wandered that morning, in the way minds do when presented with menial work, it did so to other things, things she'd been trying to dismiss: Kingsley's offer. A Ministerial job…The thought was not new to her, yet she could not properly consider it, nor grasp its intricacies until she could determine his intentions and loyalties. And, for reasons she preferred not to explore in greater detail, Hermione had meant to convey such doubts concerning the Auror to Remus, and Remus alone.

She swallowed. It was illogical, really. Perhaps even downright irresponsible, to her horror. As she returned the History of Magic volumes to a finished bookcase, the authors' names stared at her – witches and wizards known for their better judgment. Witches and wizards who would never be inclined to endanger an entire organization due to their personal feelings, even less so if they happened to be within the walls of Hogwarts and under the supervision of Professor McGonagall.

Disapproving books and misguided feelings made for a lousy, confusing explanation as she parted with Ginny at lunch, fighting the swarm of students heading towards the gardens on her way to the second floor. She wasn't alone. Thoughts never left her, self-reprimands and dread over worst-case scenarios were met with reasoning – only a day had gone by since her lunch with Kingsley, and she had, although for the wrong reasons, tried to contact an Order member about it. Thoughts never left her – then again, as good or bad a companion, thoughts did _not_ produce footsteps.

Hermione missed them at first, lost within the noise of her own mind. At the turn to reach the Gargoyle Corridor, however, she caught a shadow from the corner of her eye, drawing her attention to the rhythmic sound echoing her own. Her feet didn't slow, the spring of her pace kept her going forward even as her eyes settled on the other student headed her way. He seemed nothing like anyone she knew and yet somehow familiar. His hair was a dull brown, his face bony and lusterless. He wore no house tie or crest, yet his white shirt collar was buttoned up high in unnecessary discipline. And his eyes… coldness took her body as she searched them. It sat deep within her stomach, froze her lungs like icy water and a cruel prank, and as her vision clouded she could feel her mouth gaping open.

He'd _cursed_ her!

Mist thickened over her eyes, and her gaze no longer met his. In a second, her lungs quick-started and her upper body gave in to an uncontrollable urge:

"Achoo!"

"Merlin bless you, miss Granger!" wished the masculine voice a few inches above, and Hermione's eyes focused on the faint, milk-white shape of the Gryffindor ghost that now floated before her.

The boy _hadn't_ cursed her after all, war had made her paranoid.

"Sir Nicholas! I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't—I didn't intend to—"

"Go through me? Oh, but I assure you, one would not assume such rude thing of you!" A translucent blush tinged his cheeks and he cleared his throat, "I was distracted myself, do forgive me. You're faring well, I trust?"

"Quite well, thank you. And you, sir?"

"As much as can be expected," His mustache lifted to a side with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "On your way to see the Headmistress? You may want to mind the last step, I'm afraid it isn't as sturdy as it used to be. Or so I'm told."

With a bow of his head, Nearly Headless Nick disappeared through the floor, leaving her to follow her way. Hermione cast a glance around – neither the boy nor the Gargoyle were anywhere to be found. Regarding the former, Hermione thought it safe to assume he had returned to whatever business had brought him to the second floor, which _didn't_ include cursing people on the halls. As for the latter… it had likely taken flight and defended Hogwarts at the Headmistress' command, as the other statues had done. Though most of the suits of armor had withstood the final battle, many of the stone defenders hadn't, falling victim of far too many dark spells to be put together by a simple mending charm. Entire sections of the castle had become hollow, if not destroyed, lacking in previous ornaments turned fellow combatants and protectors.

The Gargoyle Corridor now joined the dismal list.

The stone staircase moved on its own as she approached it, no password required. She minded the faulty step as she climbed, pushing herself past it in order to reach the half-open door to the office.

"Professor McGonagall?" When her call stirred no answer, Hermione drifted closer, pushing the door open as she took a step inside, "Hello?"

She walked further into the room, which now housed far fewer trinkets than it had during Dumbledore's charge. So much so that only a couple of objects kept it from looking impersonal altogether – Professor McGonagall's golden hourglass and her standing Wizarding World globe. It was one of the room's unintended additions, however, rather than an intentional subtraction, that got the witch's attention.

On the wall of Hogwarts Slytherin's Headmasters and Headmistresses, squeezed between Elizabeth Burke –who wrinkled her nose at her – and Phineas Nigellus Black – who acknowledged her with a nod – was the never-resting portrait of Severus Snape. Unlike Dumbledore's, the Potions Master depiction bore darker, less-nuanced streaks, with vial-filled walls merging into an indistinct background. Three lit candles sat on the corner of the desk, their gleam enough to illuminate the neatly ordered stack of papers atop of it and light one side of Professor Snape's face as much as it cast shadows to the other. His fingers gripped a dark-feathered quill as his eyes roamed across the parchment, his inscrutable expression framed by his black hair.

The image resembled – and was probably painted throughout – a grading session. She felt a pang as she faced him. Although striking, neither the ghostly image George had managed to devise, nor the portrait hung on the wall could alleviate the last memory she had of Professor Snape. The sound of Nagini's engorged body slithering along the Boathouse's stone floor, Voldemort's parseltongued command, the snake's continued strikes as his body hit the wooden walls… And the notion that, of all of the antidotes she had carried in her purse for the last nine months, not a single one could have saved him.

The professor looked up from his papers and caught her stare. "What are you doing here?"

Sympathy would not go unpunished.

"I came to see the Headmistress."

He raised an eyebrow, "Concerning…?"

Hermione couldn't bring herself to say 'Order business', not when his service had gotten him killed. So she lied. "My—My NEWTS. I'd like to take them early."

It wasn't a farfetched subject for her after all, yet Professor Snape appraised her with narrowed eyes and a sneer.

"Aren't you… _wise_ , Ms. Granger?" The way he curled the word on his tongue sat ill with Hermione. Never during the six years she'd studied at Hogwarts had he praised her, "I never quite pictured it, although you always were _Minerva's_ little _pet._ I suppose it's only befitting."

Silence settled as she grasped his meaning and it wouldn't come as a surprise if beads of sweat started to gather on her wrinkled brow – each split of a second increased the chance of failure, of being deemed stupid in a dry remark by the one teacher bound to belittle her. It was an accusation, that much she was sure of – a flaunting one, phrased with very specific wording. Clever wording.

 _No. He didn't – he_ couldn't _have_ —

Hermione gulped and steadied her voice, the correct answer no longer important, "I don't know what you mean, Professor."

"Don't you? I should have known that stealing from my supplies was merely the first step."

Hermione's insides shrunk, but she raised her chin and eyes regardless. She forced herself not to think about what he was implying. She couldn't risk entrusting him more information in the event his likeness had retained not only the Professor's irascibility but his Legilimency as well. Chances were he already knew too much.

Still, a part of her wished to argue back. To tell him that, not unlike himself – albeit on a much smaller scale – she had done what was needed to keep Harry alive. Doing so had amounted to a fair number of crimes, the one he referred to being the least abhorrent one. Instead, she glowered at him, "It wasn't from your store room."

"No, I wouldn't think it were," the portrait's eyes glinted with something she couldn't quite place. "A secret known by anyone else is a poorly kept secret, Miss Granger. You will do well to remember that."

On the adjoining wall, a loud yawn startled her. Dumbledore made a show of awakening, stretching his limbs as his eyes roamed across the room, "Ah! Miss Granger, what a pleasant surprise!"

Hermione returned her gaze to the Potions Master, but his frame was now empty.

_Was that a warning or a threat?_

She didn't realize she had spoken it aloud until Dumbledore answered, "I believe, dear girl, it was both a compliment and advice. You must excuse Severus, he's quite unused to it. For him to do so, he must find you…remarkable."

Hermione fought the impulse to snort – it was a ludicrous idea to entertain that the Potions Professor could find her anything other than insufferable.

"And if you came looking for Minerva," Dumbledore continued, "I'm afraid you've just missed her."

* * *

Not twenty steps from the castle, Hermione spotted Ginny. The girl sat with Harry by the lakeside, throwing bits of their lunch to the Grindylows. Ron was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm sure he still loves you."

Hermione turned with a start to find Luna at her side. Her eyes diverted back to where her two friends lay – and Ron didn't – but she could still sense Luna's on her. Since the girl didn't elaborate, Hermione asked, "Who?"

"Both of them," Breath escaped through Hermione's nose. Professor Snape hadn't meant Hermione's NEWTs earlier, and Hermione suspected Luna also wasn't talking about Harry and Ginny. The _Hint-a-thought_ day was upon her, and nobody had cared to warn her beforehand. Oblivious to Hermione's irritation, Luna added in a sing-song voice, "I should go. Neville is helping me look for Blibbering Humdingers."

Hermione couldn't help rolling her eyes as the blond skipped away. With a controlled breath, she strode to the side of the lake. "Has any of you seen an Order member?"

It was Harry who replied, "Other than us, you mean?"

"Well, yes. A proper _adult_ , if you will."

The couple eyed her, but Ginny kept to herself.

"Uhm… Tonks is at the Quidditch Pitch with Ron, does it count?"

"Nevermind…" What on earth are they up to?"

"She challenged us to a mock duel. For fun, I guess."

"And you didn't accept?"

"Dueling against a highly trained Auror that may accidentally kill me?"

"Fair point."

Ginny grew stiff and shot to her feet, "I better go check on them."

They watched as the redhead bolted towards the Pitch, a gentle breeze further messing their already untamed hairs and the Grindylows frothing the water as they fought for the bits of food.

Hermione broke the companionable silence, "Did he say anything? Ron, I mean."

"No, but it looked like he wanted to."

"Well, I believe forgetting about a kiss trumps telling Professor McGonagall about your Firebolt."

"We did ignore you for that, didn't we? We were quite stupid back then."

"Back then?"

Harry looked away, his expression grave, "I like to think I've improved. Now I'm the _Boy-who-lived-twice_." A bubble of laughter escaped Hermione and Harry's seriousness dissolved when she nudged him. "That was lame."

"Yes. Yes, it was. But thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me long enough, but it's finally ready!
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who left me kudos, to Henker, LilianPortia, kamarooka and SilentCritter for the comments and yogabagabah, ADO, mimia108, chimyra, LilBritishVampire and hypershay for bookmarking the story!
> 
> Love you all, thanks for the continued support! :)


	25. Chapter 25

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Special thanks: To** _**MammaWeasley27** _ **, for beta-reading the story and helping me with some plot changes, and to** _**mrsblack0905** _ **for alpha-reading and encouragement! They were awesome :)**

* * *

 

A muscle ticked in his mouth, flashing one of his canines. Of all the plots and strategies devised by the Order of the Phoenix over the years, many had been suicidal. Others, daring. This, however, had been the only laughable one. Minerva was no Dumbledore. Not that Remus believed it wouldn’t work for Harry or Ron, chances were it would. Only not for Hermione.

She was no longer a student, limited to a raise of hand and the permission to pose a question. Not that it had ever been the case – her raised hand would unerringly be followed by accurate answers or, at the very least, logical conclusions. Not doubts, not ever. So, unless all Order members were to avoid her forever, it couldn’t be done.

His wolf, for one, couldn’t stomach the distance much longer.

It had been out for his blood when she came for him. Darkness narrowed his vision, thick sweat forming on his palms as he pressed them, fisted, to his thighs. When she called his name, his controlled breath hitched, escaping through his nostrils with such force he feared she would hear it. And, just as she had come, she left.

A deep growling sound rippled through the night – a blend between the wolf’s howl and Remus’ cry that strained his vocal cords, the tension threatening them to the point of rupture. But the tears belonged to the man alone.

His mate had come for him and he had refused her on account of a pointless secret from a crumbling organization, of all things. Had they bothered to come, neither Minerva nor Kings would have been welcomed in his house afterward, lest he murder one, or both. For the last two days, metal and glass reflected yellow in his stare – no longer the glimpse of monstrosity, but rather the monster itself. It had shattered everything he owned, yet Hermione’s blanket remained, her elusive scent preserved by a spell Remus fought to maintain as he cleaned the stains of his own blood from it.

At times, Remus wished to destroy it as well.

Not that he could. He would never have her, yet, like a masochist, he would tempt and taunt and torture himself. He was, after all, a pathetic man.

* * *

He Apparated close to a tall bush that looked neither intentionally planted, nor cared for. Weeds fought grass on the square and won, the smell of wild nature conjoined by pollution. It had been ages since he last took that path. Ordinarily, Remus would apparate inside Number Twelve itself.

He walked his way to the street, coming to a stop before Number Eleven, his gaze fixed on the nothingness that Headquarters was to the unsuspecting eye. He didn’t think the words, didn’t will the house to reveal itself. Street sounds dimmed and muted. Time became somewhat still as he stood, hourglass sand frozen in place waiting to fall. Staring at it, the void outside reflecting the one within.

Layers of protective charms kept Hermione from harm. Layers of cultivated self-control kept Remus. As a child, he had invented a self to oppose the wolf - aloofness wrapped in humility and patience, an entire persona created to distinguish the person from the curse.

Even the reigns of that fabricated personality now escaped him. He couldn’t  _ not _ hope, couldn’t  _ not _ feel, couldn’t  _ not _ desire. Dragging a hand over his face, the stubble felt longer and pricklier than he recalled, cold sweat beaded on his feverish skin. “I’d  _ frighten _ her, I—”

Distorted images and colors mingled as he disapparated from the street and back into his house, directly under the shower. Cold water ran over and soaked Remus’ hair, clothes, and skin. And, still, yellow eyes stared back at him from the fog-less mirror. He needed to contain it, to urge his human side back - if not for his sake, then for hers.

As rarely happened, Moony and Remus seemed to agree.

* * *

The afternoon found Hermione a redhead.

It was not the gingery shade of the Weasley’s, but a darker auburn hue that verged on the brown until light caught it just right – only then was it red. In spite of that, it still descended in loose curls over her shoulders the way it did before. She inspected the foreign face in the mirror. Fuller lips parted as delicate, well-manicured fingers traced the collection of freckles that colored her cheeks and nose, resting atop her creamy complexion. Rounded eyebrows framed her deep-set, honey-colored eyes – tones lighter than it had been, almost as if the sun had decided to shine behind brown irises. When she smiled, small mounds of flesh raised over high cheekbones.

Her glamouring was improving. She squared her shoulders and diverted her gaze in search of her purse. It would have to do.

With a crack, the newly turned redhead landed outside Tomes and Scrolls and spared a quick glance at the books behind the window. Harry’s face, or illustrations of it, populated a few unauthorized biographies of him. Curiosity had struck her once, the enticing covers begging to be picked up – never had she laughed so loudly. Romanticized Harry had never been a teenager, had never been unsure, or afraid. Moreover, he had never even been a mere wizard – oh, there were theories… And they all served to change Hermione’s opinion of Luna – she was saner than most.

One volume, however, did not belong there. Beige spines made for an odd choice – Wizarding publishers tended to stick with color: gold and red for Gryffindor, clear green for his mother’s eyes and dark hair for his father’s. Sometimes, all of the above – but never beige, never any type of choice that could make an epic, fiction-like tale look dull. In order to get a view of the cover, she drew closer and her stomach knotted. Titled  _ The Wand of Justice: the Woman Who Locked Evil Away _ , it featured what most would believe a fierce-looking witch. For Hermione, however, it featured the short, flabby embodiment of prim, evil-minded people, an embodiment who also happened to possess a disturbing predilection for pink.

There were better things to do. Hermione rushed off, gaining distance from the most popular shops and shifting away from people as she went. Past Aberforth’s pub, another grim front came into view. Hermione worried her bottom lip, assessing what she had earlier considered her best option. A mix of dirt and dried raindrops blurred the round bay windows, betraying nothing of its interior. White Gothic letters read  _ Dogweed and Deathcap _ over a moss green painting fused with the plant that named it. The prospect looked far less appealing now. She wrung her hands once or twice before crossing the street and reaching for the knob.

A bell sounded overhead and stale air greeted her. Jars, bottles, and other containers filled a ceiling-high, wall-to-wall cupboard. Settled dust coated the counter and floor, a graveyard for scales, mortars, and pestles. As she surveyed the room, sunken green eyes gawked at her from a corner. She had the presence of mind not to jump. Their owner was a corpulent, though not very tall wizard, with a gray beard and graying dark hair.

“What do you want?”

“Hi, um…” Hermione fumbled for her purse, thankfully finding her list with ease, “I was hoping to purchase these, though I’m not certain of the quantities.”

She had been able to put together the list of Wolfsbane ingredients the night before, right after jotting down a letter to Professor McGonagall. No reply had come from that yet. She could have returned to Hogwarts to look for the Headmistress once again, now that they had been given a day off, and, while there, taken a small detour towards the Greenhouses to sneak a few of the components. Except… Professor Snape’s  _ advice _ had felt somehow foreboding. Not that she believed things such as omens and not that the secrets were in any way related. But Hermione had long learned that “precautions,”, and “unnecessary,” when coupled together, were, as a rule, followed by failure.

The wizard snatched the piece of parchment from her hand. He glanced it over, but made no move to procure the ingredients. “Why would you want that? Been bitten, have you?”

“No, I–”

“Such a waste... Too pretty to grow fangs and scar. What was your name again, sweet pie?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Oh, but it is.” Hermione stepped back as he advanced, only then catching sight of the side counter. Clippings of the Daily Prophet featuring Umbridge’s photographs lay stacked on top of it, likely the only clean surface of the shop. Apparently, the man had yet to acquire her “unauthorized” biography. “Freaks ought to be registered. Maybe wear a collar, too.”

Hermione froze. And all caution left her.

“What gives you the right?” Hermione didn’t shout it. Each word left her mouth as if melded with disgust, “Belittling people at your will. How are you better than anybody? Judging someone based on... on sheer prejudice and ignorance?”

The bell clinked once again and Hermione didn’t need to look to know that a giant of a man was behind her. Her fingers itched around the handle of her wand.

The shopkeeper took another step forward, their faces inches apart. All he needed to do was touch her… but Hermione couldn’t be damned.

“Ooh, a feisty she-wolf, that is. Think we’re equal, do you? I might even keep you…for a  _ pet _ .”

Oh, magic her arse, she would—

“What is goin’ on ‘ere?”

Hermione forced herself to exhale quietly. Hagrid. Turned out the giant of a man was in fact part-giant.

Recognition, she assumed, had the seller take a step back, but his sunken eyes gleamed at her. Even as the gamekeeper took a step to stand between them, she wrinkled her nose, “Just a poor excuse for a wizard.”

A hand to his shoulder kept him in place, Hagrid’s voice a warning, “Astor…”

“You’ll be locked in a cage, where your  _ kind _ belongs!”

* * *

“Yer alright, lass?”

“Yes. It’s me, Hagrid, Hermione.”

“How—?” He waved at the air, “Oh, nevermind. The three of yeh ough’ ter stop with this Polyjuice business. Not the kind of thing to be playin’ with.”

Hermione meant to correct him, but he spoke again, “What did Astor mean, ‘yer kind’?”

“Werewolves.”

Hagrid stopped mid-breath. “They will victimize yeh, they will. Bastards, the 'ole lot of 'em. Things ain't good for werewolves these days, not since their lot supported Voldemort. Word gets out, rumors even, that someone 'lse has been turned, ye of all people...”

“I haven’t, Hagrid. He was wrong.”

He pressed a hand to his stomach, his voice gruff. “Oh, thank Merlin.”

His relief caught on her throat like an unpalatable beverage. Something she couldn’t quite swallow until it forced its way down: the curse wasn’t about the beast. That was a fact, of course, an avoidable one with the potion, but a fact nonetheless. Yet, the real curse lay in a lifetime of that shop. Hell cemented by derision, bigotry, and fear. Hermione herself had used ‘werewolf’ as an accusation once, against Remus. A qualifier meant to annul everything about a person but their condition.

Never again.

Ron’s voice shook her from realization, but it lingered in her mind like an acerbic awareness. She had missed the beginning of the conversation.

“Me? Been buyin’ some things, nothin’ much, oh no, just plain, regular things. And accompanyin’ Hermione ‘ere, o’ course, as I said, nothin’ much.”

“Hermione? Where?”

“Don’t worry, Ronald, I was just leaving. Goodbye, Hagrid.”

“‘Mione? No, wait—”

But the girl had already scampered away. A mass of people left Zonko’s then, just as a young man bolted after her, towards the castle. His hair changed colors from brown to blond as he bumped against the people in the street.

It was eerie seeing Tonks as a man. Hagrid winced as she, or rather he, knocked a man to the ground, arse to the tiled pavement, and shook his head.  _ She ought ter be more careful. Such a clumsy witch, that one. _

* * *

The Phoenix was falling when he arrived. Fiery feathers burned a brighter orange in an all-consuming fire that ignited in its chest and coursed its way to open wings. There was no ash, no extinguished existence. It rose from within itself, a swirl of fire emerging in a skyward flight. A struggle of old and new reconciled at last as it floated above its pedestal.

It was still as beautiful as the first time he had seen it.

His gaze roamed the Monument’s structure. Next to Lily and James’ names lay the name of his best friend – the Black, yet honorary Potter.

A single firework erupted, green sparks culminating into the perfect replica of Sirius. Like a photograph taken from too close a distance, the ghost of him showed nothing from the chest below, yet Remus couldn’t bring himself to meet his friend’s eyes. Thoughts spun in disarray inside his mind, the ability to form coherent sentences escaping him. There were things he wished to tell Sirius, things he had carried with him for two years. As had happened during the First War, those things had remained unsaid, as a sort of arrogance or naive hope that everyone they knew would escape unscathed. It was never the case.

“Took you long enough, Moony. I know George said to come whenever you wanted, but—” Remus managed to face him, “Hell! What happened to you, old friend?”

“Hermione.”

“Couple’s row already?” Remus glowered at him, “What? You were holding hands the last time I saw you, right over there. What was I to think?”

“She was just being kind.”

At that, undue wrinkles formed between Sirius’ eyebrows, “And the problem?”

“The Order is making me lie to her.”

Sirius barely missed a beat, “You’ve been lying to her for far longer than that, Remus.”

“It was a necessary lie.”

“And whatever this one is, it’s unimportant?” he asked, “I’m just saying, are you sure it’s their lie that got you in this state?”

“And what would you have me do, Pads? Tell Hermione she’s my mate and watch as she screams bloody murder? I can’t do that; I couldn’t bear it.”

Sirius never answered, his gaze had darted from Remus to something else.

“By—By  _ mate,” _ a woman’s voice traveled from a pillar nearby, “you don’t, by any chance, mean the slang word, do you?”

Remus turned his head. The voice was off. The eyes, too, every single part of her, except…

Except she smelled of bathing salts and wine, of fallen leaves and books.

“Because Harry and Ron never did, they were more partial to  _ friend _ . Although they  _ did _ believe I was one of the guys, that happened to sleep in a different dormitory, up until fourth year,” Her brows furrowed, “If not for the Yule Ball—”

“Hermione.”

“Yes?”

Remus daren’t move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the new chapter, I hope you enjoy! And please don't hate me for the cliffhanger lol
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who left me kudos, to NiightKiitten17, Invisibrows, and ellsworth_longfellow for the comments, and to FionaFallout for bookmarking the story. You guys are great!
> 
> And a special shoutout to NiightKiitten17 for keeping the words coming! :)


	26. Chapter 26

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Special thanks to** **_MammaWeasley27_ ** **, for beta-work, and to** **_mrsblack0905_ ** **for alpha!**

**A/N¹: The idea for this scene came from the PoA movie. Look up the transformation scene and you’ll know what I mean :)**

* * *

 

_Mate._

A part of her knew what Remus had meant by it _,_ the meaning dangling from the tip of her tongue, ready to be spewed, and almost engendering a snort at the thought of her being not only an ambulant encyclopedia, but a breathing dictionary, as well. Regardless of that, realization wouldn’t come, refusing to drip into her conscience like a drop of dew to the ground.

Wolves mated for life, but certainly werewolves… No. There wasn’t a single mention of it in any of the books Hermione had read, and she had read plenty. Even biased as they were, they wouldn’t leave out such an important detail as a… a partner. Furthermore, but for a night a month, werewolves were more man than wolf. Certainly, it would be inconceivable… and, even if it wasn’t, for _her_ to be _his_ mate…

He called her name then, a welcome reprieve from her clambering thoughts and meaningless babble about her friends and the ball. But, when she raised her head and met his gaze, his eyes shone liquid gold.

Her heart thudded in her chest. All thought fled her—the predatory quality of his eyes hypnotic and feral without Remus’ soothing green. The wind hissed through the structure of the Monument. Despite the warmth, her skin prickled.

Honed instincts, years of them, screamed at her to run.

The last time she had seen those eyes, gleaming under the canopy of trees in the Forbidden Forest, she had been reduced from cleverest witch of her age, to doe-eyed, fleeing-for-her-life _prey_. She could still recall the tang of blood on her tongue as she bit her split lower lip, helpless to do anything but wait for the werewolf to pounce. Harry had shielded her with his body, but to little avail. If not for Buckbeak, the wolf would have struck – and most likely killed – both Harry and her.

Tendrils of fear swirled inside her stomach, her pulse racing through her veins, but the blood it carried seemed unable to deliver her brain sufficient oxygen. She ought to think, yet she ought to run, too, and, in her present state, one would have to come to the detriment of the other. No more than a whisper, a hint amongst half-formed thoughts and emotions told her it was imperative to stay, the reason why lost to the confusion.

Ultimately, it was the sight of Remus that kept her there. While she struggled with herself, she had shifted on her feet, swallowed, and frowned. Those were the reactions her mind had registered, and Merlin knew how many more had gone unnoticed, somewhere below her own self-awareness. All the while he had yet to move, his chest and body unnaturally still under her gaze. As if intending to appear less menacing to her. As if, by being still enough, he could make her stay a second or minute longer.

She recognized that behavior. At times, she, too, had been tempted to abide by it. _If I could be less of a swot, less bossy, less abrasive… Less than I was. To please others._

Whereas he was diminishing himself to please…

Her eyes narrowed. Tears sprung into them and, though unseeing, she could see past the color of his. “I’m not a skittish animal, I won’t leave you. Breathe, please.”

Both of them did. And the littlest rim of green detracted from the unabridged gold. “Hermione—”

“Kitten, you must listen—”

Her stomach hovered higher in her chest than it should, putting her self-control through too soon a test, and her hand shot to contain it, “Sirius! I forgot you were there.”

The wizard smirked.

“Not very polite - fireworks do have feelings, you know - but understandable,” his demeanor sobered in a way it rarely did, and Hermione didn’t miss the concerned glance he threw at an unaware Remus, “Just—Just hear what he has to say. Please.”

It was true, then. The dewdrop hit the ground.

And she found she did not care.

Hermione gave Sirius a curt nod and set her jaw.  She knew not what it entailed, to be somebody’s mate. Knew not the reason behind it or how and when it had happened. What she knew, however, was that she refused to hurt Remus. In the end, it was as simple as that. Even if it meant fighting every single one of her reflexes.

* * *

The sense of safety Hermione had lulled Moony into was fleeting. The wolf hadn’t known that, but the man did. He had watched the fear etched in her changed features, an emotion he had recognized in others all his life. It would, almost without fail, grow into hatred, scorn, disgust, malice, abhorrence; a wide assortment with only one implication: unwanted.

“I’m your wolf’s mate.”  There were tears in her eyes and severity in her demeanor. Could he even blame her?

“It wasn’t a conscious choice, Hermione, I didn’t—” Never had the need to explain been so overwhelming, so much so that it ached. The memories of that night hit him full-blown, the only clear ones from his transformations. Because it pertained to _their_ mate. “You talked to me that night—here, in the forest. After I had transformed. And I— _It_ howled because It recognized you.

“The wolf could smell your fear. You must understand It misread the cause of your panic. There was Peter, Snape… your friends, Padfoot – they were _all_ potential threats to you, but never the wolf. Of course, you couldn’t know that. When you stepped back, you were surrounded by them. And It- _I_ would have protected you with my life.” He scanned her face, hanging on her every expression, but they betrayed nothing, “After Padfoot attacked me—”

Her brows furrowed.

“—I howled,” Hermione looked down to the patch of grass on her right, “You came.”

“I did. But Harry was there. Noble as it was, him holding you…”

“Another threat.”

His voice grated on his ears, but he couldn’t swallow, “I would know, after I regained consciousness, it was me you were afraid of, but not then. You were terrified. And It would have killed them all, foolishly assuming it was their fault, when the only monster there was me. No amount of apologies can change it, but I am sorry. More than you can possibly understand.”

Although Remus knew it was the least Hermione deserved, he found he couldn’t face her. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened in for any clues of her departure. And, for a moment, there were none.

Grass crackled underneath her feet. _This was it…_

With eyes forced opened again, Remus waited for events to unfold. He wouldn’t defend himself, not from any curses she might deservingly throw at him, from her rage, her disdain, her insults, or her silence.

Over the years, he had prepared himself for every single scenario. For never seeing her again. Or for forever seeing her keep her distance.

He hadn’t, however, prepared for what happened. Hadn’t prepared himself for her tears.

And, when they threatened to fall, he never expected her to close the distance between them. Never, despite the myriad of possible outcomes, had he dreamed she would throw her arms around him.

Her tears landed on the fabric of his shirt.

Hermione was crying for _him_.

As he touched the locks of her hair, the red curls turned brown. And he resisted the urge to undo all the changes with his fingers.

“You should have told me.”

“You were a teenager. A brilliant one, but still…”

He didn’t know how long they stood there, but, at some point, the afternoon had turned to night and the glow of the Phoenix became the only thing illuminating them.

It was Hermione who broke the silence, “Harry kept a bedroom for you in case you changed your mind.”

“Regulus’?”

“No, that's Ginny's.” At that, Remus raised an eyebrow. And her laughter sounded like a long-lost song, “She _does_ have her own bedroom. She just, uh, chooses not to stay there. You could sleep in yours tonight. Or...”

“Or?”

“There is this smell, you see. Sandalwood and... _Your_ smell. And it's quite comforting and it feels warm, not that a smell could possibly _feel_ warm—” She stopped herself, “What I mean to say is...would you stay tonight? With me?”

And, though it was night, he could feel the sun. His own private sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the new chapter! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)
> 
> Just a heads-up: I have a one-shot dedicated to and prompted by LilianPortia, it'll be coming up as soon as I get the middle of it right. So, if you're interested, pay attention to next chapter's notes!
> 
> Huge thanks to everyone who left me kudos, to NiightKiitten17, LilianPortia, ellsworth_longfellow, and Rubbo for the comments, and JennyLynn, IronDuke_37, Babybeast16, and Rubbo for bookmarking the story. You guys keep me going :)


	27. Chapter 27

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Special thanks to _teheminator_ for beta-work, and to ** _**AquiViva** _ **for alpha! I was worried all the going back and forth in time would be too confusing, but they saved me from having to cut five paragraphs from Remus POV.**

* * *

The very moment the Monument’s structure meshed around them, concrete and fire swirling to become something else, somewhere else, Remus caught wind of it – and found he couldn’t stop from deeply inhaling.

It wasn’t, of course, as if he’d never sensed it: he had gotten a whiff of Hermione’s bedroom before, at Number Twelve. He could still remember: it had been a passing, guilt-ridden, barely accurate occurrence, driven by Remus’ need to feel her fragrance and not that of Ronald Weasley and food enshrouding her all the time. Food, for the boy had spent all his time gobbling something up and loitering around her as they waited for Harry to be brought to Grimmauld Place, and the boy had nothing but his growth spurt to thank for not gaining the pounds as quick as he was swallowing them.

Despite that, Remus’ stop at her bedroom had been completely mad, utterly inappropriate, and, ultimately, futile. His excuse had been a half-arsed one, and Ginny’s confusion understandable, as he dropped by their shared bedroom to loan Hermione a book. Something that wouldn’t sound unthinkable if not for the fact that all the occupants of Number Twelve knew Hermione spent her free time at the Library, writing letters to Harry she couldn’t send or editing run-of-the-mill replies for herself and Ron instead. And as reckless acts are never timed right, Remus had arrived a moment too late: the room was immersed in Ginny’s spicy perfume, recently splashed, with nothing but a hint of Hermione thrown in the mix. He’d done it because he hadn’t seen her for over a year before she arrived with the Weasley’s earlier that week, not since that night in the Forbidden Forest.

The house had been a mess, with dangerous items scattered at every corner, still Crookshanks had found his way as if he’d lived there his entire life – the orange cat had entered Sirius’ room that afternoon, moments before the twins-induced ruckus started downstairs, and hopped on Padfoot’s lap. When Remus whispered her name, the animal turned his flat face to him. Dark, vertical pupils immersed in orange stared unblinking at him – an assessment of sorts, almost as if it saw right through him. If the half-kneazle was half as smart as Sirius had claimed, it would deem him undeserving and chase him away as it had done with Peter. But it leaped down and weaved between Remus’ legs before twitching its tail and leaving.

 _Not the cleverest of cats_ , as the man it had approved of spent that evening – and the following week – drowning the grief and shame of envying a fifteen year-old boy – one of his former students, no less.

It would sound insane, he supposed, to believe that a time such as that had closely resembled happiness for him, but it had. For the longest time, happiness came in small, twisted doses to him, if at all, and what else could he call his mate and Harry’s presence, along with that of an alive and innocent, if not pleased Sirius, and other members of the Order, all gathered in one place and under Dumbledore's lead? Bleak though it was, the Black’s house couldn’t be safer – Remus had checked and rechecked the protective spells, and they were powerful enough to make for an unreachable, almost impenetrable headquarters.

Until Kreacher’s betrayal, and Sirius' and Dumbledore’s deaths changed everything. After that, the ones still there had left at once, leaving the house to decay. He, too, had stayed away – the house was far from safe, as Snape could not only divulge the street's location but had effectively become one of the Secret-Keepers for the house. Moody’s Tongue-Tying curse could prevent him from saying the location, but what would prevent him from writing it?

He had wanted to find her, to make sure the Trio had escaped and found a safe place after the attack during Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but the Ministry had fallen and they were being watched. Over a month later, when the underground became more familiar than the outside, he returned, expecting to be met with a house that, much like his resemblance of happiness, reeked of mildew and was tainted by death. And though it did reek of mildew and was taken by dust, there was just the slightest hint that she had been there. And he had kept coming, betting against the odds that she would return.

Now, however, a much different assortment of scents engulfed him, as hard wood replaced the softer grass under his feet and walls closed all around them. Unsurprisingly, most of Hermione’s bedroom was redolent of paper – old and new, her books lined the shelves and piled atop her desk in organized chaos, accounting for the mishmash of must and freshness. Unlike any library, however, a captivating sweetness tinged the air.

Amortentia would never smell like chocolate again, and Remus couldn’t say that he mourned the loss. Any of his losses, in fact, for he had now lost all the battles, posed no further threat to the bond he had warred with the wolf for years to suppress.

In Remus’ surrender, it abandoned him.

The maddening drive of only an hour before left him. The instinctual, animalistic tendencies he had grown used to fight, to oppose, were no longer there to determine his actions. It was at once freeing and void and for a second – for he wouldn’t admit any length of time longer than that – he worried the wolf inside had died.

No. He was fairly certain it didn’t, but as it lay peacefully, the man was left with far, far scarier things – his feelings, _one_ feeling that was entirely his own. His throat grew thick. She was too smart, too beautiful, too lively… too young. She might not feel the same, likely couldn’t, his foot tapping the floor of its own accord as he struggled to classify her behavior and failed to come up with anything more than that of a confidant.

That of a _friend_.

Like a pathetic teenager, Remus knew not what to say, feeling rather too tall and stupid and stiff as he kept a proper distance from her.

Most of all, he tried his best not to glance at her bed. Therefore he was left to look over to the dress she had left hanging at the back of her chair, the no longer decaying wallpaper, and the forgotten glass of water in her nightstand before meeting her gaze, feeling the need to fill the silence, and though hundreds of questions danced in her eyes, she refused to pose a single one – a ludicrous thing if he had ever seen one, and he wanted to beg, to plead—

“You need rest,” although the words were absolute, her fingers on his wrist were unsure, “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can over-analyze every single aspect of this,” and with an unrelenting look usually aimed at her best friends, she added, “ _Tomorrow._ ”

He chuckled at her bossy concern, and the rumble of his own laughter along with her ill-suppressed smile undid some of his anxiety. Every single thing about the day had been impossible. For her to have found the truth, from his lips – a werewolf on the verge of losing control – and not run. Moreover, to worry over his well-being, ask him to stay, and lead him to her bed, as she was now doing, knowing as little as she knew about a bond he’d kept from her… It was trust and care he hadn’t earned and couldn’t possibly deserve. As they lay together in bed, facing each other but not touching, there wasn’t an instant in which he needn’t admonish himself for wishing he could kiss her. For wishing he could trace the bridge of her nose with his finger, caress her face along the line of her jaw… Not once in his life, despite all the self-loathing, had he been able to truly believe he was greedy for wanting the things he did. Not until then, not until her.

And though greed was rarely rewarded, his was, for in between the drowsiness of the early morning and the faint, almost suspended light coming from the window, he opened his eyes to find her head resting on his chest, one arm draped around his stomach – Hermione was half in his arms. And so he allowed himself to be dragged back to slumber, back into the dream in which they simply belonged.

* * *

Like clockwork, Hermione’s eyes snapped open. Years of waking up early for classes and to review her homework one last time, just to make sure it was as complete as bibliographically possible, followed by months of keeping watch, foraging for food, and resetting the protective spells in the woods had set her body into a disciplined routine, regardless of the part of her that wished to remain snug and oblivious for an hour more.

This time, however, the reason behind her awakening was quite different. Nightmares had plagued her during the war, some during the night, others not dreamt at all. She would wake from the former, her body still as it tried to contain her racing pulse.

Yet the images this time didn’t concern Voldemort or his followers. They weren’t atrocities at all.

They were memories: clear to her mind’s eye in a way they had not been to her own when they happened. All of which she was sure had happened as portrayed, except for one. One she couldn’t attest to having happened at all, a delusion, perhaps, half-imagined and half-dreamt.

The morning light seeping in from the curtain she forgot to draw played with Remus’ dark blond hair. It made him look years younger and more peaceful than she had ever seen him, with his lashes resting against his cheek, spared of any evident concern. Warmth coursed through her. There was something thrilling and utterly illogical about being _allowed_ to look at him – her mate. It was a short-lived feeling – for years, he had been alone. There could not have been a rush of excitement for him, trapped by a bond he never asked for, tied to someone he hardly knew. Someone who only recently had become of age. And what of the earlier years? Fear and disgust must have permeated the word she now toyed with like a silly teenager scribbling “love” on the corner of a parchment page.

Hermione averted her gaze. She disentangled herself from his arms and slid out of bed, but Remus didn’t move a muscle – a testament to his exhaustion.

Once on her feet, she reached for a half-empty glass of water forgotten on her nightstand.

It was a stretch, really. An attempt likely doomed to failure. But the images kept coming to her in her dreams, and she risked losing the real ones to her hazy, unconscious imagination, so she cast Engorgio on the glass and defied her knowledge in Transfiguration.

The water stirred. Taking it as a good sign, Hermione led the tip of her wand to her temple, suspending the blue, tenuous fluid of her memories until it reached the makeshift pensieve. Unlike the real one, diving into it wasn’t an option – she would have to content herself to watching the events play on the water’s surface.

The first memory was that of the train.

Her much younger self answered Ron’s question, perhaps a bit too matter-of-factly, _“Professor R. J. Lupin”_

_“How’d you know that?”_

_“It’s on his case.”_

She waved past the following memories: his classes, Harry’s comments about him, hours comparing lunar charts and checking out werewolf books from the Library. Innocuous interactions, all of them, until she reached his transformation.

Their fear was palpable. The first time she had watched from afar, powerless to change most of it despite the three turns on her Time-Turner, her pulse had raced. She had been a mere viewer, privy to what came next as one is while watching a suspense film, yet just as unable to warn the main characters.

Different eyes looked at it now. A heavier heart, too, as she contemplated the moment Remus’ wolf chose her.

The time gap from that to the next time Hermione met Remus had seemed irrelevant to her before. She had thought of him sparsely, though with fondness, throughout her fourth year amidst Victor, the tournament, and Harry and Ron’s antics. A length of time Remus had spent with the knowledge he had found his mate in a fourteen year-old girl. Hermione's 'Hello, professor' in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place seemed lacking and inadequate now.

The memory shifted. Rather than a continuous image, only fragments showed, as if illuminated by a blinking lamp. It took her a moment to realize it wasn’t because it was half-forgotten, but because the Hermione in the memory was drifting in and out of consciousness.

There was a chin covered by a ghost of stubble, strong arms, lights… And a familiar ceiling. She was being brought into the Hospital Wing. By Remus. She tried to recall it, searched her mind for the exact moment it had happened, and came up empty.

_The low buzz echoing through the memory turned into words, “And Mr. Potter? The others?”_

_“Harry will be fine. I don’t know about the children. Just save her, Poppy.”_

_Another blackout came. Although the urgency was no longer in their voices, something else replaced it, “The Order should have prevented this.”_

_“We tried. Sirius… Sirius, he…”_

Comprehension dawned: their blind, beguiled attempt to save Sirius at the Department of Mysteries, which Hermione had always deemed as Voldemort’s most heinous attack against Harry’s mind and heart. It had been just as heinous to someone else, someone who had lost everything to Voldemort, in one way or another, and had stayed by her bed as if his survival hinged on nothing else in the world but her.

Her eyes stung with barely contained tears.

“I thought I’d find you surrounded by books,” Remus’ hoarse voice addressed her from the bed, and her heart gave a slight jump that thankfully didn’t translate to her body.

Hermione waved her wand, unwilling to make him relive the memory, setting the next scene into motion.

“I, uh, I thought I could bother you for some recommendations,” there was a brittle quality to her voice, as if her throat had forgotten how to properly work and was spewing stifled word-like sounds instead, but her tears didn’t fall. Hermione looked upward in an attempt to dry them, “Of all the books I’ve read on werewolves there was never a chapter on mates. Not even a single footnote, to be honest.”

“Hermione, are you all right?”

Before she could answer, memory-Remus spoke.

_“You’re leaving.” It was a statement._

_Her image jolted back, away from the clothes she had been packing for Harry, “Professor! I—”_

_Memory-Remus narrowed his eyes, and her younger self bit her lip. She had always wondered how he had known, when not even the boys had._

_"Yes, we are. Please don't try to stop us, professor. This is something we have to do."_

_“Where to? The three of you shouldn’t be alone. You should take an adult—”_

_“I’m not at liberty to say. And I AM an adult, sir, I’m seventeen. I can take care of Harry.”_

_There was a pause. The corner of his mouth took on a grim twist, and his gaze weighted like he had lived a thousand days in the last hour, “I never doubted that, Hermione. But who will take care of you?”_

“Your memories?”

Hermione nodded. It changed again, this time to the dark kitchen of Number Twelve. And she remembered the row between Remus and Harry.

_“You’re back.”_

_It was memory-Harry who answered, “Not permanently, we haven’t finished—”_

_“Let me come with you.”_

_“No, Remus, Dumbledore gave us this mission. If he wanted anyone else to know—”_

_“AS IF I CARE!” Remus stood, and what was left of the dusty china rattled in the cabinet behind him, “Dumbledore trusted Snape, and now he’s dead. He was not all-knowing, Harry. Powerful yes, but he was not God. You need protection.”_

_Hermione hadn’t noticed before, but the gold was there – flaming in his eyes along with his wrath. This was the most bewildered she had seen him, as well as the most hopeless._

_Before they left, her memory-self offered him a sad smile, “We’re doing fine, professor. The Order needs you.”_

Remus sat on the edge of her bed and put his hands in his pockets, “You were always so much more than capable, Hermione, you’re a brilliant witch. My sanity hung on that thread, the last shred of sense based on that knowledge. Not much more was left.”

Before she could respond, the image dissolved and yet another, one she hadn’t been expecting, showed.

_“Help! Somebody help!”_

The words snatched Remus attention and she followed his gaze.

_“Expecto Patronum!”_

Hermione watched the blurry image playing in the water and offered, _“_ Our Patroni.”

Remus frowned at her, “I never conjured a Patronus that night.”

She could feel herself grimacing, “I might have conjured yours.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's another chapter! I hope you enjoyed it and let me know what you think! :)
> 
> Obs.: Updates are going to be a little tricky until October comes along, but I’m not abandoning this story, so don’t worry about it. Meanwhile, you might want to check out my other gift-fic for LilianPortia called Trapped (it’s a Remione Fluff/Humor oneshot).
> 
> Huge thanks to everyone who left me kudos, to NiightKiitten17, LenaLeon, ellsworth_longfellow, LilianPortia, Ravenclaw, HH, Ash, Italianbookworm, and Vicki for the comments, and shaken_notstirred, Kuro_Nekojin, selene2, TheWindowless, angelswatchoverme, ellaniji, missmoony, and yumalatar for bookmarking the story!


	28. Chapter 28

**Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

_**Special thanks to MammaWeasley27 for beta-work - she's amazing!** _

* * *

He placed the improvised Pensieve under stasis, his gaze lingering on the white, blurry image frozen on its surface. "That's… unexpected."

That was Remus' word of choice. Not _disquieting_ , _worrisome_ , or outright _terrifying_ , nor the plethora of synonyms that assaulted his mind at the moment. He offered Hermione a tight smile, pulling his facial muscles—despite their resistance—up the best he could, because surely he was wrong.

And, thus, there was no cause to alarm her.

Whatever appetite he’d had abandoned him and Remus dragged his damp hands along his thighs. Once they reached his knees, he stopped. Tense muscles sat heavily upon his shoulders, and he could do nothing more than lean forward, trying to distribute the weight.

“How would you know for certain?" _The mere thought… The possibility of it…_ He swallowed dryly. "Did my wolf return to you? Did you see it afterwards more clearly?”

There was a pause and Remus tracked every flicker in Hermione's expression: the way her gaze dipped to the left, her eyebrows furrowing, the curve of her lips as they parted, and—his stomach now clenched—how her gaze traveled upwards, eyes widened as they met his. “Professor McGonagall.”

The older witch had known, then.

Hermione continued, "Everyone else believed you had conjured yours before you lost consciousness, but she asked me when we were alone and I specifically told her... What does it mean?"

"I don't know," And because he didn't want to lie to her again, he added, "It is likely related to our bond."

“And isn't there any chance she attributed that to the life-debt as I did?”

“Minerva wouldn’t think that.”

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Because that was never the case, was it?" she snorted. "It was a misconception all along.”

The tight pull of his muscles attempting to make the resemblance of a smile returned, if less strained now. "And out of everything _that's_ what you're angry about? Of being wrong?"

"Well... partly, yes!" A smile threatened to form on her lips, half-suppressed, and her voice lowered, "I've grown used to being right—it's a heady feeling. But even _Harry_ would correct me if I were wrong."

"I hardly think Harry would ever dare to correct you."

"But _you_ should have."

Remus nodded, “The reason Minerva wouldn't assume so is that she knows you. Haven't you ever wondered why—despite fighting Voldemort all these years—neither you nor your friends ended up with a long list of debts to one another or to any members of the Order? The reason for this is that life-debt magic possesses a particularity to it—a condition, if you will—for a debt to take place, one that is not all that known.

“You see, the thing about them is that they’re only really binding if the person saved wouldn’t repay the favor of their own will. You, however, never owed me or anyone else a life-debt, Hermione, because you’re kind. Given the chance, you would do everything you could to save me," And though he had established it couldn’t be true, Remus couldn’t help but add, his voice lowered, “And, in the end, you did.”

Hermione diverted her gaze, the slightest of blushes pooling on her cheeks, but she didn’t seem to read anything into his last statement. “And what does it mean? To be my mate?”

“It—it means longing looks and a special sort of loneliness whenever you’re not close. A fear larger than life that you might get hurt, that I will be helpless to prevent it. And jealousy I wish I didn't feel." Remus swallowed, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t intend—”

“For it to sound that painful?”

"It is anything but at the moment," And it was. Because staring into her eyes felt a hundred times more exhilarating than running, more calming than a spring breeze, and it almost made him forget the bitterness of his earlier thoughts.

Almost.

"You have a choice, Hermione,” he said, instilling his words with all his might because the idea that Hermione could have accepted the bond between them unknowingly, could have therefore relinquished her freedom to help him while they were both splayed on a bloodied ground during a vicious battle broke something deep inside of him. And though Remus wished he could abide by his words, there was always a chance the wolf wouldn't. "You will always have a choice."

One way or another, Remus would make sure of it.

* * *

A sickening feeling clawed its way inside her stomach. Cowardice had never been amongst Hermione’s faults, yet there were questions she daren't ask at his words. Answers she couldn't force herself to demand.

As it was, however, they also happened to be the kind she desperately needed. And so she made her lips part, urged her tongue to obey—

There was a rap on the door.

She stilled, the words lumped into her throat.

“I’ll bring you the books tomorrow,” He stated, and before Harry's head popped inside the room, Remus was gone.

"We're heading down for breakfast. Are you coming?" The boy rubbed the back of his head, disheveling his unruly hair further as he smirked. "Luna's cooking."

"There’s—There’s just something I must do first. I'll be there soon."

She paced—three short strides towards the bed and two towards the desk before she pulled her chair and took a seat, unstoppering her black ink bottle. The soft barbs crumpled against her palm as she sunk her quill into the ink, not bothering to remove the excess even as large drops blotched the corner of her parchment and thickened her handwriting. The nib threatened to bend under Hermione’s grip whilst she scratched the words onto the paper.

**_I accept._ **

**_But there are conditions._ **

And while Hermione left her room to borrow Ginny’s owl, feeling rather lightheaded and unsteady on her feet, she hoped it to be the right decision.

A half hour later, when the reply came, she still wasn’t sure.

Kingsley’s words stood out easily from the parchment, his calligraphy almost as striking as his voice:

_Shall we meet today and discuss your terms over lunch?_

As Hermione ate slightly burnt Blibbering Humdinger-shaped pancakes, she wondered if there was anything to gain in a deal with someone who _just might_ be a devil.

She cringed. She was definitely going to regret this…

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I have amazing news!
> 
> This story has been nominated to the Shrieking Shack Society's MarauderMedals2017! It's competing under the category of Best Romance and I'm just... God, I'm soooo excited!
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to whoever nominated it and to all of you for your support and for keeping me going all this time. I couldn't be happier :)
> 
> There are some wonderful stories on the list! If you'd like to check them out, you can find them on Shrieking Shack Society's website: shriekingshacksociety.weebly.com
> 
> This chapter is a little short, but I really wanted to update. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Huge thanks to everyone who left me kudos, to ellsworth_longfellow, FawkesyLady, LilianPortia, and Vicki for their comments, and to Rae81p, The_Girl_Wednesday, gallifrey_companion, CatherineJosephineMarie007, and Carmen_Potter93 for bookmarking the story!


	29. Chapter 29

**Tie your Heart at Night to Mine, Love**

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Special thanks and love to _teheminator_ and _MammaWeasley27_ for beta-work! **

* * *

 

If there was one thing that peeved Hermione Granger the most it was not understanding things. That’s what she did: she understood the minutia of complex concepts, spells, and potions; picked up on the undercurrents of context, connotation, and expressions; and, last but not least, prided herself on having learned—in detail—the history and guiding principles of both the Muggle and Wizarding Worlds.

In her years at Hogwarts, it was that knowledge that allowed her to assess situations and make informed choices, to ponder factors and devise the best course of action possible. Provided, that is, that the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio didn't charge—like stampeding Hippogriffs—in the opposite direction. _A comparison somewhat detrimental to the highly discerning creatures…_

Now, however, Hermione couldn't help but feel she was plunging head first into unknown waters and none of it was Harry or Ron's fault. Post-war times, as it happened, were intent on proving themselves far murkier and nastier than she could ever have expected.

In the days following her first lunch meeting with Shacklebolt, after the shock waned just enough for Hermione to examine his motives, she found it made absolutely no sense for him to offer hera Ministry position.

Like most absolute notions, of course, that was partially false.

Hermione was good—rather extraordinary, really, if every professor but Snape and Trelawney were to be believed. Quite famous now as well, however aggravating and uncomfortable the attention felt. Yet reasons such as these fell short. All Kingsley had to do, after all, was approach Harry in her stead. While Harry wasn't _nearly_ as enthusiastic when it came to studying, they were equally talented, and, when it concerned the Golden Trio, he was the part larger than the whole, so to speak. Regardless of how much she had tried to disabuse him of the idea, Harry was nationally, perhaps even internationally, known as the Chosen One. Which begged the question: _what did the wizard believe her capable of that Harry wasn’t?_

It was quite a small list. Not her Arithmancy knowledge, for certain. Or her ability to follow rules—which was, at this point, arguable at best. Only two possibilities came to mind: the first, the one Professor Snape’s portrait had so… cleverly implied. Her so-called “poorly kept” secret.

Her stomach contracted.

 _No_. What use would he have for it, even if he did know? Unless Kingsley expected her to _spy_ for him _,_ something she would never agree to do. No. No, he didn’t know. Whereas the other possibility… Well, it had to be it, hadn’t it? The only major difference, the one that mattered.

Harry would never… Harry _could_ never… Nobody could betray their own parents in a more heinous, appalling manner.

She somehow succeeded. A sour taste rolled across her tongue, and the corner of her mouth twisted. It spoke volumes of who she was, did it not? After that, betraying the Order would be nothing for her in his eyes.

Hermione shook her head and forced herself to focus on the task at hand—finding proper clothes. Not a single or combined item in her wardrobe was suitable to help her pull the confidence she would need this time—no piece of clothing held such power. No kind of magic, either. Nevertheless, black would suit her well. She searched amongst her belongings for a dress—any dress—that would hide the scar on her arm whilst looking the least floral and lively.

And while lively, floral dresses had comprised a small part of her clothing in the past, now was a different matter. Everything she touched seemed to turn sickeningly flowery.

Hermione plowed through her hangers and drawers. Had her fears not taken somber streaks since the war, she would assume a Boggart had taken residence inside her wardrobe. However, no Boggart would dare to place a Spectrespecs shirt amongst her things. There were no such things as _wrackspurts,_ invisible or not, and though her abhorrence of it could perhaps be interpreted as a fear of irrationality itself, there were cleverer ways for them to manifest it. A more Alice in Wonderland approach, for instance.

For her sanity’s sake, a conversation with Ginny and especially Luna was in order. After failing to procure a more sober item and the clothes' refusal to being Transfigured, Hermione settled for a long-sleeved, boat neck dress in cream that descended all the way over her knees, and kitten heels in the same shade. The ensemble was much too frilly—as the lace bow she'd removed from its belt could attest—but it would have to do. Half a bottle of Sleekeazy and a search through her jewelry box later, the witch stood before her mirror.

Rays of sunlight that brushed against the bedroom's furniture and the fabric of her clothes turned into patterns when caught and reflected by the string of flower shaped crystals adorning the golden bracelet on her wrist. It was her single family heirloom. Something her mother had gifted her when she was first admitted into Hogwarts.

Something Hermione had been much too selfish to return as she stripped her parents of their memories. Their selves.

And perhaps there was a meaning to her choice in wearing it, perhaps she sought to remind herself of the last time she did something to protect the people she loved by violating their trust. To summon the pain and disgust of her actions in such a manner that she would, at the very least, feel reluctant to repeat them.

Deep down, she knew it wasn't the case.

Choosing that bracelet had to do with acceptance. Of what she had done. Of what she was about to do. Wasn’t that what the Auror expected of her, to wear betrayal like a badge?

A Harry-like voice whispered in the back of her mind, seething revulsion dripping from its every word, "You are no better than Kingsley."

Perhaps she really wasn't.

* * *

In the hours Hermione had before lunchtime, she went through all the possibilities, scrutinized every loop Kingsley could exploit, every detail she could not afford to overlook. What-if's still popped into her mind, threatening to Splinch her as she tried to concentrate on the clear image of her Apparition point. The sharp tug of displacement followed by the scent of grass brought her focus: she was, as of now, out of time.

Untrimmed bushes surrounded her to the right and left, keeping her from prying eyes at the same time their leaves and branches caught on her hair and clothes. She cursed, fixing a small rip on her dress with her wand before smoothing down her hair and re-adjusting her bracelet one more time. She had done it so many times now she considered removing the accessory altogether, but her hands would simply fumble with something else. 

Not that Hermione had grown nervous. It wasn’t nerves, it was annoyance—that was a more accurate word. She was annoyed about the fact that the shrub—which wasn't magical and therefore shouldn't behave as Hogwarts' Whomping Willow— had assaulted her, that her heels kept sinking further into the soil, that the hair she had wasted a handful of Sleekeazy to fix was now ruined, and that she would probably starve during another lunch meeting in which lunch wasn't on the menu. She was annoyed—that was all there was to it. And if she felt distraught at all, well, that was completely due to her annoyance. _After all, what could possibly go wrong?_

Her shoes clicked against the pavement after she rid them of the dirt and in less than a minute Hermione found herself standing before the restaurant's entrance once more. They had agreed to meet later that day at The Chesil Rectory, the same Muggle one they had gone to the first time. Ignoring everything around her—the people and houses on the street, the bistro's architecture and the historical pieces it displayed—Hermione hurried inside.

When the waiter—the same older man who welcomed her the last time she was there—spotted Hermione, his lips moved, forming words to which she didn't pay attention and merely replied with a mumbled generic greeting. Her prepared speech played on a constant loop in her mind, the words now almost engraved in her memory. The man led her across that room and into another, semi-open one, to the table where Kingsley was waiting for her.

Once again, the Auror had dressed in Muggle tailored clothes, his jacket suit matched the exact shade of Bordeaux of the wine he drank, and not a wrinkle was visible in his suit, on what was visible of his plaid dress shirt, or on the dark brown tie knotted over it, even as he sat in a relaxed manner.

"Ah, Hermione! It's good to see you again."

Her lips curled down of their own accord. "Likewise."

Shacklebolt stood as she neared the table. He motioned for her to take the seat across from him.

As she did, she caught a glimpse of his wand. Hermione’s blood froze. The tingle of magic that ran down her spine had Hermione reaching for her bag.

She knocked an empty water glass to the floor as she drew hers, shards flying in her foot’s direction before she found them being repelled by Kingsley’s magic. His wand was gone in an instant.

"I only cast a Silencio charm. To give us privacy," Kingsley said, one hand reached out. "Put away your wand, Hermione. I have no plans to curse you in the middle of a Muggle crowd."

Hermione swallowed and looked around. The waiter that welcomed her was walking towards them, carrying a broom and a dustpan. Before the waiter reached them, Hermione shoved it back into her bag and whispered, "Of course not. That would be absurd."

"Are you hurt, miss?"

"No. I’m terribly sorry, it was careless of me."

“There’s no need to worry.”

When the waiter left, Hermione cleared her throat, reclaiming her seat, "Let's go on with it, shall we?"

Kingsley smiled, "Of course."

Hermione raised her chin. "These are my terms: under no circumstances will you speak in Harry's name or wield my connection with him. The same condition applies to Ron, Neville, Luna, and Ginny. You will not capitalize on my friendships. You won't use Dobby, and you most certainly won’t use Fred. I won't allow you or anyone else to feed off their deaths for political gains. Everything has limits. Politics must have limits."

The Auror lowered himself to his chair as she jabbered on, "Very well."

Her jaw hardened. "I am not finished.”

"Do continue, then."

"I have once told Minister Scrimgeour I had no intention of pursuing a career in Magical Law. I am of a different opinion now." 

"I see."

“I will be given clearance to word a law, and to restructure one of the Ministry’s Departments.” The wizard tensed. If anything, his defensiveness stoked her resolve, “As Deputy Head—”

Shacklebolt scoffed. Hermione found the sound rather unpleasant.

"You are far too young to be assigned as Head of a Department, Hermione."

"This law is one of my primary conditions."

"You seem to have a great deal of those."

"I will have clearance to word this law. Otherwise, you have been wasting both our times."

"Deputy Assistant. With guidance, of course."

"Of my choosing?"

"Given that it's someone qualified and experienced. It will still be voted, this law of yours."

"Outstanding."

"Are those all?"

"No. Remus... Remus can't know. You won't tell him about it."

"And why is that?"

"I don't see why the knowledge would be relevant to you."

Kingsley chuckled. "I'm merely curious, Hermione. You demand a law, but won’t elaborate on it, forbid me from telling my friend. I am human, after all."

Hermione's eyes bore into his, her face hardened. She didn't budge.

"Very well. Am I allowed to know, since you took the time to phrase your demands so carefully, what do I get out of this exchange? If I decide to heed your terms, that is."

"My influence. As a member of the Golden Trio. As a muggle-born war heroine. As one of the most brilliant witches of my age, with flying colours on all her N.E.W.T.s."

"I was under the impression you hadn't taken them yet."

Hermione squared her shoulder and stared him in the eye. "I haven't."

A minuscule smirk showed on the corner of his mouth. Kingsley raised his glass, slightly tilting the bottom towards her. "I believe we have a deal.” Before he left the table, he added, “Feel free to order whatever you like, lunch is already paid for."

Hermione watched as he stood, watched his stride as he left the room.

The smell of freshly cooked salmon wafted through the room.

She found she couldn't eat.

When Hermione exited The Chesil Rectory, she leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. She was fine. The Auror had agreed to her terms, she had gotten what she wanted, hadn't she? Her hands had no business feeling cold. She took another slow, deep breath and raised her head. Her gaze focused on nothing at all at first, until her eyes found the bold, red 'Rented' sign on the formerly unoccupied office across the street.

For the first time since she arrived, Hermione really looked at the building. Another sign, not in bold or red, but glued to the glass wall read:

_Soon to be another franchise of Smileydents,_

_Your teeth's best friend!_

Nausea hit her despite her empty stomach. She wanted to disappear. To crawl into a hole and not think at all. To not feel at all. And so she did, for hours she didn’t bother to count.

When Hermione Apparated into her room well into the night, exhaustion ingrained bone-deep into her body, she did so to find an envelope on her bed. Her window was open, but there was no owl to be seen.

She decided not to read it.

Her shoes were toed off her feet without any care, the dress abandoned in a pool by her feet as she changed into her pajamas. When she sat on the edge of her bed, Hermione stared at the letter. She broke the unmarked seal and removed the narrow paper inside. It was nothing like parchment—the back of the paper felt silky against her fingers. Silky as non-magical photo paper.

Her knees shook. Hermione slid off the bed, her chest hollow and aching as she tried to blink the tears bursting from her eyes away.  They continued down her face, all the way down her neck until they were absorbed by her clothes.

The sobs were not far behind. Three people populated the photograph. Her father held a baguette under his arm. Her mother wore a red beret, and she, an exaggerated mustache. The Eiffel Tower stood half-cropped at their backs. The whole thing was terribly ludicrous and stereotypical yet the tourist guide had insisted they wore all the props before he took their picture. Part of the French experience, perhaps, to watch tourists make fools of themselves.

Hermione grabbed the envelope, looking for any distinctive marks on it. There were none. If Kingsley had sent her that letter…

She was _nothing_ like him.

A muffled, soft voice came from outside her door, "Hermione, are you awake? It's Neville.”

"Y-yes.” Hermione dragged her forearm over her face. “Yes, Neville, come in."

“I, uh, come bearing tea. But I can leave if you want.” Neville cracked the door open and peeked inside. The sight was enough for him to enter, apparently. “You're, um, your eyes are red. Did you have a nightmare?"

"Our lives are nightmares, Neville, most of the time."

“May I?” The boy motioned to the spot on the floor next to her. Hermione nodded. He balanced their cups on his hands before managing to sit crossed-legged, his knee touching hers. He put the beverages aside and Hermione showed him the image.

His eyebrows had lowered when he looked at her again. His lips were pinched together, his eyes shining wet. "Yeah, sometimes—sometimes they can feel that way."

Their tea grew cold. They cried together that night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here’s the new chapter! I don’t know how you guys feel about author notes (read a post these days and most people said they absolutely hated it), so I’m keeping this one short. Just wanted to say a huge thank you to those who voted for the story – Tie won 2nd place as Best Romance at Marauder Medals! Yay!
> 
> As always, all my love to everyone who left me kudos, to FawkesyLady, MammaWeasley27, Entwinedlove, VioletBuckbeak,happiness8000, LilianPortia, Lovegoodswag97, polyommatusblues, Salovi, Saphira, and Leelee712 for their comments; and to Elly306, JennyLynn, Sparkses, Cedarbrick, Ronda Flower, Miss Blakeney, nuitbleue, fleurblossom, and spookygolin for bookmarking the story!
> 
> P.S.: I've been trying to publish for a few hours now, but Ao3 is having issues so fingers crossed...

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first Harry Potter fanfic, and I wanted to start with a Remione story (I also have Sirimione and Snapemione ideas hanging around in my head, but one thing at a time, right?). I do hope you guys enjoyed and I apologize for any mistakes in advance - English isn’t my native language and I don’t have a beta for this story, so if you catch any, feel free to point them out.  
> Please review and let me know what you think!  
> P.S.: I borrowed the title from a poem from Pablo Neruda. It’s not one of my favorites from him, but the beginning of it fit perfectly (Tie your heart to mine at night, love, and both will defeat the darkness).


End file.
